


Unum, Infractus

by Dichotomous_Dragon



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Character Study, Cole being awesome, Cullen and Bull are going to murder someone, Emotional Hurt, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Male Friendship, Physical Abuse, Revenge, Vivienne being lovely, supportive inner circle
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-09
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-03-06 19:21:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 26,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3145676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dichotomous_Dragon/pseuds/Dichotomous_Dragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some of the Herald's loyal followers take it upon themselves to punish a certain Tevinter mage for daring to corrupt their icon with his affections. In Skyhold, the Inquisitor's own fortress, the man he loves is attacked by the people he's sworn to protect. Worse, he's not there to stop it, or comfort his mage afterwards.</p><p>Many of the Inner Circle are, however, and they're on the warpath: hunting down those responsible while trying to undo the damage done. Some scars are more than skin deep, though, and there may be more to the story than any of them realize...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. If You've A Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some of the Herald's loyal followers take it upon themselves to punish a certain Tevinter mage for daring to corrupt their icon with his affections. In Skyhold, the Inquisitor's own fortress, the man he loves is attacked by the people he's sworn to protect. Worse, he's not there to stop it, or comfort his mage afterwards.
> 
> Many of the Inner Circle are, however, and they're on the warpath: hunting down those responsible while trying to undo the damage done. Some scars are more than skin deep, though, and there may be more to the story than any of them realize...

###  If You've A Mind

"Now if you'll excuse me, I am going to go drink myself into a stupor...it's been that sort of day. Join me, if you've a mind." Cai Trevelyan had not taken him up on the offer, asking instead for a rain check with a kind smile and a kiss. He had offered to come if Dorian needed him, but the mage knew he'd hogged enough of the Inquisitor's time for one day--he did have other duties, after all--and dismissed him to his advisors and what was doubtlessly a monstrous pile of paperwork that had been piling up since they'd left for Redcliffe a week prior. They'd spoken two days ago but a frantic-last minute trip to the Hinterlands and back had delayed him being able to purge his thoughts from the trip. He was making it up in spades now, drinking some horrible, syrupy red wine that was far too thick for his liking. The sweetness had left his head fuzzy after one glass (surprisingly efficient, actually) and his tongue coated and swollen after two. He had promptly lost count shortly thereafter, tucked by his lonesome in a corner as the Herald's Rest slowly emptied and the night dragged on, the worn table his only company. It suited him OK.

Besides, Dorian needed no assistance getting sauced, least of all when his father was the primary reason.

Still, it had been a worthwhile trip, he had to admit. As he sat, head deep in his hands and deeper in his cups, the only thoughts that the Tevene mage hadn't managed to drown were of the Inquisitor himself. The firm hand on his shoulder in a dimly lit bar. The solidarity when he spilled his guts afterward and got an affirmation and a look of-- _pride? concern? something...else?_ \--from the Inquisitor (the man he had very much fallen for) in return. Cai's eyes had been kind but fierce, locked on his own, looking like nothing so much as the sky before a rising storm. And he had understood. Understood, and supported him. More than that, he'd kissed Dorian and told him he respected him more. _Maker, what did I do to deserve him?_ A small groan of incomprehension escaped him and he finished his drink to quash it, pleasantly warm and mind very nearly successfully quieted.

A heavy hand clapped down on his should and Dorian winced; the force, swathed in the metal of a soldier's gauntlet, was a bit much to be considered friendly. Eyes not the slightest bit bloodshot, the mage looked up into the frown of a tall blond man he didn't know.

"May I help you, armsman?" 

"Your presence is requested, ser mage." The heavy emphasis on mage actually was lost on the Tevinter, who backed his chair and stood, swaying ever so slightly.

"Ah, far be it from me to deny someone the luminance of my presence." My, his tongue was thick from that awful wine, speech heavily impaired, disproportionately so even given the current level of hum in his veins from the alcohol. "After you." The soldier ignored him and started off the back door, not saying another word or acknowledging that the mage was indeed following him (in a rather stumbly fashion). "Who is it that wants to see me, exactly?" Once again, the soldier didn't answer. Sober Dorian may have noticed they were taking an oddly dark route up the back steps, along the parapets that were dark and deserted this time of night. Sober Dorian was several hours long gone, however, and moaned ever so slightly at the number of stairs as he followed the armored man to one of the more remote towers. 

The soldier paused at the door, opening it and holding out an arm that gestured for Dorian to go first. Nodding slightly, feeling woozy from the climb, the Tevinter walked ahead into the dimly lit room, feeling the soldier follow him in and the door follow them closed. The darkness, and the scant view of several dark shapes in the moonlight and candle flame, gave him the first feeling through the fog that something was not right about all this. A gauntlet-wearing fist's blow to the back of his head drove that thought home tenfold.


	2. Is It Because You Feel Like You Have To?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the encouragement!!! I have never written...some of what follows...before and it helps a lot, you guys are the best ;) I am still deciding how far to go and the rating will ratchet up accordingly. I have a LOT of the stuff after the badness written, where the friends Dorian might not know he has get all vengeful on his behalf.
> 
> SIDE NOTE::For those of you who have watched the cutscenes a dozen times like I have: Dorian is getting hammered because of the convo with his father but in this story, it is more of a solidifying moment in his relationship with the Inquisitor rather than the 'start' of it. Before this point, Dorian had assumed it a fling/just fun.

"He looks addled, you didn't crack him one out in the open, did you?" A voice: youngish, Orlesian, male. The soldier that had led Dorian to the tower scoffed, clearly the more senior of the two. "Of course he's addled, he's been guzzling magebane and shitty wine for hours." Ice bloomed in the pit of Dorian's stomach. The man was right, of course--regardless of how deeply in himself he looked, reached, Dorian's mana was ever out of his grasp, rainwater running in rivulets from a ruined vase. Footsteps brought several shapes nearer to the downed mage, who was still trying to lever himself up from the blow to the back of the head. He had no such luck. A steel-shod boot caught him in the ribs on his right side, a three-beat assault that was accompanied by his pained gasps and concluded with a sharp snap from the same locale, driving Dorian to curl into a fetal ball on the cold stone. He choked for breath, pain searing through the fog in his head, if only for a moment.

_This is...not going to be good, I'll wager._

The hits multiplied to the point he could no longer tell how many there were or what they were hitting him with, with a handful of unfortunate exceptions. A club of some sort hit him in the stomach, leaden and heavy, making his ribs groan. Someone stomped on the small of his back. A heel ground into one of his well-muscled calves, the resulting spasm long and painful. Each blow was a jarring note, dischordant melody combining into a song the mage had no desire to hear. A heavy piece of wood cracked into one of his knees. Someone kicked at him and miscalculated, a unique, searing line of pain that rang against his temple. This boot, too was metal-shod and sliced him on the way past, a glancing blow but a sizeable gash. Crimson ran in torrents in a line from his temple back to his ear, soaking his already sweat-drenched hair and staining his collar. Distantly, he heard one of the men say, "Enough. Bind his hands."

Two large forms knelt down in front of him and Dorian noted the masks on their faces, very much a jarring non-sequitor with the armor they wore. There were others, how many he couldn't see, but the two in plate were the two that were brave enough to bodily come grab him. He tried to lunge free of them, hit one as they played tug-of-war with his shoulder blades, but he had neither mana nor balance to draw upon. Unacceptable! He didn't know who these people were or why they were hitting him; his mind had burned off enough of the booze to care only so far to determine what he could do to save himself. Thoughts thick with the fog of magebane and something startlingly similar to dread, anger seared through the Tevinter's chest. He'd be damned if at least one of them wasn't going to hurt tomorrow. Maker only knew what state he was going to be in.

His feet somehow found purchase and a quick yank later, his broken ribs were screaming but his right arm was free. Dorian growled an epithet in Tevene for the bastard and threw a haymaker so solid it dropped the man to the floor, his three silver rings (and the fist they were adorning) bringing the message home with stunning clarity, right behind the man's ear. He dropped like a stone, too stunned even to swear. "Courtesy of the Imperium," said Dorian, aware that blood was running from the corner of his mouth as he did.


	3. Try Not to Get Yourself Killed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The righteous can be a vicious lot when they feel their Herald is being led astray...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Violence and Hate-Speech in this chapter!!

One of the bystanders was kind enough to kick his legs out from under him, though, and that was the end of it. Dorian fell hard, pain a thief that stole his breath and wouldn't give it back. His wrists were pulled roughly behind his back and lashed to his elbows, coarse cord cutting into his skin. Several hands forced him flat; when he wriggled, trying to get free, he was kicked in the side so hard he yelped. That in turn hurt like _hell_ and he stopped fighting. He didn't want to know what they'd do to him should he lose consciousness.

"This hardly seems...civil," the mage panted and was struck hard in the face for his trouble. A half-dozen aggressors were pinning him bodily to the floor, the seventh standing over him as though he were the offering at a sacrificial altar. Fitting, perhaps, that the one looming held a jagged blade in hand. None of them were looking at Dorian, eyes instead on the angry, broad-shouldered blond man who was apparently the organizer of this madness.

"Silence, filth." _Such venom_. The mage glanced at him, saw the deep scorn evident on his face. Maybe _now_ Dorian would find out for what he was being punished. He didn’t want to, not really, shivering and wanting to groan from the pain in his body. Possibly also from the trepidation welling in his chest, too. Still, the academic in him wanted to understand the ‘why.’ "You seek to influence the Herald of Andraste in ways that are disgusting and unnatural, selfishly hedonistic as the world around us threatens to end.” A pause as he seethed, genuinely furious. Genuinely believed that he and his motley assembly were righting a wrong. “...That is not an action we are willing to allow, not against the Herald of the Blessed Andraste herself. Not with a _Tevinter mage_ and a faggot besides."

Dorian cringed as the pieces fell into place. He didn't have a chance to rebut, either, as the blond man advanced on him, knife drawn. A brief synopsis of the mission, then, and straight back to business. A rough hand clamped down over his mouth, thumb under his jaw, silencing him for the show of whatever it was they were going to do next. He struggled, tried to break free. Tried to do _something_. The hands holding him were too tight, however, bruising into his ankles, his shoulders. Someone--the one silencing him, probably--had a death-grip on his hair, too, fingers knotted and locked. 

The cold blade of the dagger made short work of his robes, elegant tan silk and leather destroyed in a matter of breaths. Dorian went still for that, shaking harder now with his bronze torso exposed to both the cold of the air and the ill will of the people that were holding him down. The leader was sneering nastily down at him now and knelt, took to a knee between the mage's spread legs. Something inside him screamed as a palmful of mage-fire lit the room, the tip of the dagger held within it long enough to glow white-hot. 

There was a _mage_ here, helping this lot. He shouldn’t be surprised, he supposed. 

He ceased to care as that blade found the right side of his chest, dragging a long line downward, shallow and straight. Nerves exploded, the wound cauterized as it was carved, blood leaking around the blade as his flesh burned.

Dorian screamed, thrashed, choked on his own blood and spittle as the sound was lost behind the hand clamping his mouth closed. His tormentors grounded him, held him through the convulsions as he tried to free himself, stifled the most horrible sounds he’d ever been forced to make until they were barely groans. The blade withdrew for a moment, tip held back into the fire as the torturer readied for another pass. Every fiber relit in ponderous agony as the blade dug into his chest again, this time for a shorter horizontal cut. A second was drawn parallel immediately afterward, blood boiling around the hot metal.

Blessedly, Dorian’s body chose that moment to buckle, to relent as he finally passed out, consciousness fleeing like a startled halla. He welcomed the blackness so happily it frightened him, in the split-instant he was awake to know. Then, there was nothing.


	4. There Are Worse Things Than Dying, Dorian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “There are worse things than dying, Dorian.” He had, as usual, been right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING FOR VIOLENCE! Nothing too graphic or gross, but it is rather vivid.

_It never ceased to surprise him, how wise Felix had been. Had **always** been, were Dorian being honest with himself. So many small, throwaway comments that resounded in the other mage’s heart months, _ years _later, and at the strangest moments._

_“There are worse things than dying, Dorian.” He had, as usual, been right._

Dorian’s head cracked against the stone floor, his mind becoming aware as his body did--with a jolt and a scream, wrenched back into consciousness as his right shoulder was wrenched from its socket. The scream was severely muffled by a mouthful of cloth someone had shoved between his teeth. The reality of the moment came washing back over him, pain lancing his chest and arm from the shoulder and a dozen other points that didn't want to be forgotten.

“Ah, our pupil returns to us. The lesson can continue.” Dorian couldn't see the blond man but knew he was close, knew it just as he knew what the smell of mage-fire meant. Blackness tunneled the Altus’s vision, limiting his view to the rotted, broken panels of the loft above him. He couldn't endure the idea of looking at the knife descending towards him again. The shadows leapt to swallow him again as the blade plunged home; pain and fire bore him down. The only thing that kept Dorian conscious was the insidious man’s voice, distant, somewhere above him, saying:

“Don’t nod off again--we will have to remove your other shoulder from its place if you can’t manage to pay attention. Your fingers are insufficient to wake you. You understand?” He noticed with a wince the thumb that wouldn’t bend, then, and the index finger with the same problem. The cords were so tight on his wrists Dorian hadn't caught on to his broken digits until that point. The disconnect between his body and his mind, swimming, _drowning_ in agony that he felt but didn't, should worry him, but doesn't. A new kind of cold washed over Dorian then and he could _feel_ the blond man’s smile.

Something in him understood, then, and his eyes clenched shut as he screamed. He kept screaming as they cut him but didn't struggle; he _wanted_ it to end, to delve into the darkness constantly threatening to advance, but stayed awake. Dorian felt someone splash potion on his chest, over the wounds, slowing the blood loss and ebbing the pain not a bit. 

The torture became a process, one he counted, cataloged, like he did with the books in the library. The knife drew two, three, four, _five_ long, straight lines in parallel across his chest, tearing through what had been pristine muscle hours before. The pain was hellish, choking him, making it impossible to breathe. He was too hot despite the cold air, shivering but unaware of it.

The horizontal cuts went faster, much like his shaking, and the hands holding him down similarly had trickled down in number. Three shorter cuts in total, joining the others. They were writing on him, leaving a title and a warning so that others would remember what he was and so that Dorian, tagged with their handiwork, could never forget.

Four of his attackers remained by the time they had finished their little art project on his chest, leaving Dorian shivering on the cold stone floor. He didn't, couldn't, speak, even though they'd given him back his mouth. A good thing, since he could barely draw in enough air with his mouth unobstructed. The only sounds he managed were pained little gasps, breath pulled unwilling into lungs that strained themselves from screaming. _Thank the Maker it's over_. His mind was rapidly going cold, slipping into shock _back into shock? Goodness it was hard to tell...._ Too removed to be scared, too overwhelmed to do anything other than try to drown him in its own white noise. The tiny, analytical voice that lived in there, too suggested it was a defense mechanism. Coping, or something like it. That voice was barely a whisper and that in and of itself was proof positive that the mage was floundering. Mostly, he was lying on a cold floor on what remained of his clothing, the scraps soaked crimson by his blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am wavering from the original prompt _just_ a tad, in that Trevelyan is not the one who reacts first to the offense against his lover. One more chapter of mean (I'm sorry, dear peacock...) and then we'll get to the rest. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who left comments and kudos, you rock my socks off!!!


	5. Did You Think It Would Be Easy?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We get to the others at the close of this chapter. Flags again for violence, though I have revised the tags to fit the story better now. Thanks SO MUCH for all the comments and kudos!!

Blondie was talking, voice smug behind his mask. He wiped his hands on a rag he dropped to the floor, one more piece of garbage for the pile that was his completed objective. Dorian didn't hear most of it, awareness ebbing in and out, the slow lick of waves against the shoreline. A lovely sentiment, really, save when one realized that the waves were of agony and the shoreline, his ability to form cohesive thoughts. 

_Breathe. Manage that if nothing else_. In and out. Small, ragged gasps counted even though they wracked his ribs to do so. Nevermind that the tide was rising, unyielding and while it ebbed, the darkness rose up further each time. Every bit of his energy was tied to the process of pulling in air and trying to keep out everything else.

His aggressors, what few remained, did not seem content with that. The blond man raised his voice, leaning down to admire his handiwork. The nearness of the man's self-satisfied ramble was enough to drag the mage's ears back into registering more than his own sounds; his mind, into doing more than just contracting his chest and staying conscious. 

"Now, you are marked for all to see. May the Herald know his fortune at finding out now what filth you are, before your taint spreads to him." Dorian shuddered, multiple bad memories bleeding, blending into something worse. He heard those words in a different, more familiar voice echoing in his head, reaffirming the bastard's sentiment. 

Of _course_ he would gain some measure of lucidity only to think of his father. The look on Halward's face, he disgust and raw fury carved into his features, were vivid. _As though I were contagious. As though I were a Blight of a...more repugnant variety, no less toxic or unwanted, one that no proper person would suffer for long_. Dorian pondered that for a moment, divorced as he was from much of his sense and a good deal of the pain he knew he should still be feeling far more than he did. 

_...Maybe I am as they claim_. His father had certainly thought so, once he'd found out...

“It is time we wrap this up.” 

_Maker no, please_. After all this, they could not just put him down like a mongrel in the street--it simply wasn’t fair. He couldn't voice it, couldn't do anything but shake his head, a denial of the inevitable, _just like when he had tried to live the lie his father desired_ , a nasty thought suggested. _Equally ignored in both cases_. He knew his denial now was no less futile, had realized as much when he heard footsteps drawing nearer again. Every bit of Dorian was either over-sensitive or muted, his senses and body-awareness garbled. A combination of the mage-bane and the pain, sounds and sights and everything washing into a grey-tinged haze he couldn't quite wade through. Shock kept him immobile though he wanted nothing more that to run, to struggle, to _escape_. 

A gloved hand found a fistful of his hair. The grip slipped at first, made slick by his blood, before the fingers tightened and yanked so hard Dorian was forced to struggle up to his knees. Rough hands shoved cloth back into his mouth, binding it in place with a cord this time. _No no no no no **no**_. Someone yanked on his right arm to cease his struggling; this time when the scream tore free, he fought them. He threw his weight, shaking and pulling and straining like a wild animal against the rope and their damnable hands, savage and crazy. He struck back with on leg like an angry mule might; a grunt of pain from one of the men sang out, the small note of a pointless victory. It wasn't enough, not in the state he was in. 

This time, when the darkness surged up and blacked Dorian's vision out, he let it, and his captors were gracious enough not to bring him back. 


	6. It's Something

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to get the other characters involved!

Cullen was buried in missives--nothing new there--though it was only mid-morning and he was already two dozen replies behind. Troop movements in areas they were unopposed; resource excursions to restock the stores of ores and other materials; arranging for forward scouts into a couple new regions that Leliana’s people had found fitting footholds in. It had been quiet at least, the news mostly mundane. _A small thing for which to be thankful_ , Cullen reminded himself. With the sky torn open and evil quite literally around every corner, making sure they were prepared via the machinations he oversaw allowed the man a peculiar, tense sort of respite. Never did he get enough done, but he was trying, as was the rest of the Inquisition. When the time came, they would do what they had to. He would make sure they were prepared.

The ex-Templar leapt out of his ruminations--and very nearly out of his skin--when Cole appeared on his desk in a burst of smoke, crouched atop the parchments. Several of the missives blew off the table, surrounding the spirit in a whirlwind of sheets and ink. The Commander swore and threw himself backwards; it was a heartbeat, at most, before he had his sword drawn guard up. His feet were bladed, his stance set, before he realized what-- _who_ \--he was facing.

“Cole…” Cullen growled, feeling the throb of his rampant heartbeat in his chest and in the jumping vein in his throat. "What have I _told you_ about appearing inside my--" The wide brim hat tipped back and Cole regarded the larger man with a frantic look on his face, pale blue eyes wide. That alone was off-putting, silencing Cullen mid-scold. The spirit must’ve heard him think as much because he leapt off the desk and immediately began to pace, odd curled boots parting the papers strewn about like autumnal remnants on a walking path. His hands wrung against one another, clenching and clutching. 

"I...I didn’t hear him at first...I was in the infirmary for hours...days?...soothing, softly, sending gentle pushes where they’re needed most...it's so _loud_ in there, so much crying and calling--" Cullen’s eyes narrowed, his grip tightening around the hilt of the blade he couldn’t bring himself to lower.

“Cole, what are you--” but the spirit cut the Commander off, desperate to continue what _sounded_ like it might have been a confession of sorts.

“It was only a moment, fluttering, fleeting, the barest brush of what felt like begging,” the frantic note returned, driving Cole to talk faster as he clutched at whatever fleeting thing he’d heard, “-but I was too slow and _now I can’t hear him_. He’s waiting, wrung-out, and I reached but the darkness swallowed him up.” Blue eyes rose to meet Cullen’s own amber gaze. When the spirit continued, the man could not ignore the raw concern in his words. “It is harder to hear when I’m tired and they’ve gone quiet in the darkness.”

"Cole, I need you to tell me what happened. Who are you---"

"Dorian!" Cole snapped, actually snapped; fierce worry overriding his quieter concern a breath before. “He’s hurt. He needs help.” Cullen winced, his decision on trusting the spirit made for him. He sheathed his blade, crossing to the other side of the desk to join Cole. He’d gone still when the mage’s name had crossed his lips, head bowed and face invisible beneath the shadow the broad hat cast. Cullen hesitated for a moment before placing his hands on Cole's shoulders. “I tried to find him but couldn’t. I tried to tell the Inquisitor next, but he’s riding back from the Hinterlands still. It was too far to go.” Cole was shaking his head against what Cullen assumed were the plans of action he’d opted not to take. “The hurt is _here_ , he’s close by. I just don’t know exactly where.” Unsettling eyes locked on Cullen’s again. “I need to find him.” The Commander nodded brusquely, hands affirming with a gentle squeeze on wiry muscle. Whatever he thought of Cole at any other moment, right now there was no question that he was indeed a person: one concerned over the well-being of a friend. _A mutual friend_. One who was apparently in danger.

“Then we will find him.” Cole brightened at Cullen’s affirmation, standing straighter and nodding. “Have you any idea where to begin searching? We can grab others--”

“No.” A firm refusal, one that drove Cullen’s eyebrows to raise.

“If Dorian is in need of help that badly, we should--” but Cole was shaking his head.

“That will not help. It has to be friends, or it will make the wounds worse." Cole's eyes closed, his face scrunched up as though thinking hard; remembering was still not the easiest thing for him to do. "When I heard him it was dusty and dark. He was...bruised and breathless and bitten by cold." A long moment passed. Cole let out an agitated grunt, a forced exhale that was so reminiscent of Cassandra that Cullen almost smiled. "That's all there is. I can't remember anything else."

"That's ok. We'll split up--I'll check the perimeter, you start in the old rooms near the courtyard, the ones still in disrepair. Wherever he is, there can't be much foot traffic or we'd have heard tale of him already. Come get me as soon as you find him, alright?" The spirit nodded, patting one of Cullen's gloved hands with his own. 

"Thank you." With a flutter of papers and nothing more, he was gone. Cullen lowered his hands to his sides (Cole vanishing had left them poised awkwardly in midair) and took a deep, steadying breath. Upon drawing a second, he took off in Cole's wake for the battlements.


	7. Help for the Mage, Please!

While Cole was flitting through dusty rooms on the other side of the keep, Cullen was trying his damnedest not to look like he was in a hurry. He got stopped three times on the battlements as he checked the first tower, before sending a runner to Rylen to intercept everyone in his stead the rest of the day. He got stopped two more times in his office as he doubled back-- _routine patrol, right_ \--and made his way to the towers on the opposite side of the wall.

Luck was on his side, in being expedient, anyway. The first thing Cullen noticed was the fresh blood on the floor and the swathes that motion had carved through the thick dust as someone had tried to clean it. Cullen frowned. They checked these rooms on patrols every so often, but with the state of the roof and floor, he didn't want to risk someone in full armor taking a tumble because the Hold was in disrepair in some spots. Not much reason to come in here unless you were hiding something ( _or someone_ ). There was debris everywhere, dust thick in air and the mid-morning light. The scattered piles of junk explained why the Commander didn't see him at first, but it was as Cullen started realizing the blood was a trail rather than a splatter that he saw a curled-up figure cowering to the side of an old, broken bed, partially hidden. The pile of old boards and busted shelving obstructed his view but it took him no more than a blink to clear it, his metal boots loud on the planks as he approached, panicked. The scene even at a glance was a grizzly one: shredded clothing and tan skin dyed deeper to purple and black. _Oh Maker, what happened here?_

Dorian recoiled away from the sound of boots, tucking himself even further into his corner as he cringed into a tight fetal ball. His arms were drawn horizontally behind him, the skin around his wrists raw and bloody, torn by struggling and the rough cord still knotting them in place. Cullen couldn't see his face, not entirely, but what little he _could_ see was covered in dirt and bruises. The mage's lush robes were in tatters and scattered about the floor, sliced to ribbons much like the skin that had been underneath them, covered in blood and grime. He was shaking, head to toe aquiver from more than just the chill.

It took only a moment for the Commander to take it all in; a cold, consuming pain for his friend bloomed in Cullen's chest at the same time his fists clenched in fury. He stepped back from Dorian, teeth slamming together in a scowl and already knowing what he'd find as he straightened. As Cullen's body turned, he rotated in perfect timing to meet Cole, materializing from his Fadestep in a small billow of dark smoke. The Commander could not have called the spirit any more efficiently if he'd tried.

"Get Iron Bull. **Now**." Cole nodded once and was gone before his chin rose back to resting height. He'd heard what he needed to in the other man's inner wail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short I know--more very shortly! Mostly I wanted you to know I wasn't going to leave the poor man out in the cold any longer than...well, than could be helped!
> 
> Thanks to everyone who left kudos and reviews!!


	8. An Actual Qunari Spy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I admit a little lingering struggle with M!Trevelyan, hence he is still in transit and MIA. Mine is a goody-goody. I want him less so for this. Blarg!

The Iron Bull was out at the practice dummies with some of the Chargers, running through maneuvers and knocking Krem on his ass every twenty minutes or so when his attention lapsed. It was good to see his second had not lost his edge for keeping his eyes on everyone--definitely a key skill, one The Bull admittedly kept refining so his troupe could carry on unhindered without him. Self sufficient they were, but Krem tended to get caught up watching everyone _else's_ back, forgetting to watch his own. His chief found hard to keep the grin off his face when the 'Vint went tumbling for the tenth time, growling curses in Tevene as he hauled himself out of the dirt.

"Can't you pick on someone else, you big ass?" Krem muttered, rubbing the same as he stood back up and brushed the residual courtyard off of his armor. “We _have_ training dummies.”

"Picking? You think I'm picking on you? C'mon 'vint, you know better," The Bull's eye was glittering, his grin honest but somehow also stern. "This is serious business! I have to keep sending you flying til you get it _right_. Don't need some merc out in the field doing it in my place-- _they_ won't wait for you to keep your shield up."

"You just like hearing me swear like your little mage friend," Krem grumbled; Bull chortled and didn't deny it. Hearing Tevene in a friendly's voice instead of a target's was a weird salve to old wounds he didn't talk about much. He gave Krem a nod that released him back to drills with the others and the 'vint obliged, albeit muttering about piss-brained Qunari and still rubbing the sore spot on his arse cheek where he'd landed on it last.

It was of course at that exact moment Cole chose to materialize at Bull's elbow, cutting off the moment of quiet pride he was enjoying behind Krem's back. He had a fist wound into Cole's shirt and him off the ground before he realized...and then had to shove his breath out from behind clenched teeth as he sat the kid back down while he grunted softly to himself.

"Vashedan, Cole, you need to stop doing that," Bull murmured seriously. Cole caused near-death experiences for himself and others far too frequently, between the near heart-attacks and the weapons being drawn. The spirit did not acknowledge Bull's comments. He had a hazy look in his eyes, veiled behind his bangs. When the kid started speaking, it was in a wispy voice that was broken, not his normal questioning cadence. The Ben-Hassrath was one-hundred percent sure he was hearing an echo from someone else’s head.

"Twisted and tortured, tied and crying. I begged, bowed, but they wouldn't stop." Bull's face immediately hardened and he grabbed Cole's shoulders gently, turning the spirit so Bull's own massive size hid him from prying eyes. Never knew when there were lip readers about.

"What's the matter kid?" He didn't need to question whether there was a problem; the look on Cole's face told him that much. 

"He told me to come get you--he thinks you can help. The bag of poultices would be good," he pointed, gesturing to the supplies Bull always had handy just in case one of their exercises got out of hand, "Will you come with me?" Before the larger man could answer, Cole's voice shifted and Bull could tell the boy was in someone's head again; a different someone, this time measured but angry. "Shivering, shamed, have to keep him hidden. Have to..." Tone shift, back to Cole. "...I can help with that. Bull, I have to go, I can help. Can you follow? He needs your help, too." 

"Sure thing, kid," the big Qunari replied, keeping his fraying nerves off of his facial expression. This sounded like the worst kind of shit. Bull's training and consequently keen ears meant he had not missed the key words. Someone had gotten beaten, badly, and whatever else was going on, it needed to stay quiet. "Where am I headed?"

"Cullen's office. Come alone--quietly but quickly." The smoke hid the spirit's shifting from view; by the time Bull turned he had completely vanished. Well, then. If the Commander was involved (or had been the target), shit was likely about to get very real very quickly.

"Keep at it, boys. Krem, you're in charge. I'll be back in a bit." The Bull casually loped over to grab the bag of healing supplies, eye scanning the courtyard to see if anyone had observed his meeting with Cole. It did not appear so. All the better, as he was definitely leaving a bit faster than normal.

"You got it, Chief," Krem called. Bull saw the question in his eyes but a miniscule shake of his head and his second let it go, acknowledging the order with a nod that was just as slight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little more setup and we get back to business--thank you everyone, as always, for the comments and kudos!!! I am working on this along with a much larger story that is very Dorian/Cullen centric (not as a pairing but some days, I wonder!) This one will stay on the ~every 3 day update schedule til completion though!


	9. We'll Talk Later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some habits are hard to break and when bad stuff happens, you revert to what you know.
> 
> Sometimes, though, all you can do is keep breathing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longer one this time!! :)

The trauma of the crime scene immediately set the ex-Templar’s mind sprinting down the path of reconnaissance and revenge. Time was critical; he had to find the perpetrators _now_ , prove they were guilty and stop them before they struck again. Cullen forced a giant exhale, calming the part of him--the vicious, very _persistent_ part of him--that was telling him to skip delivering the mage into safe hands (Cole was on it, after all) in favor of the hunt. 

Someone had done this. 

Someone in _Skyhold_ had done this. 

The bastards that had done this were likely Inquisition people--it _had_ to be plural, too, given the extent of the damage--or were posing as such. Muscles in strong hands clenched, wanting to find the offenders’ throats and _teach them_... This was senseless, ugly, and familiar. So very like the Gallows, so similar to the acts of hate he’d seen perpetrated in Ferelden first and, more blatantly, Kirkwall after… Echoes of the worst humanity had to offer reverberated through his head in memories the former Knight-Captain wished he could not recall quite so easily.

Cullen forced himself to breathe again, shaking the tension from his limbs as he knelt back down, feeling selfish and uneasy. He knew where the anger stemmed from: Dorian was his friend and he was hurt. Those two things together made helping him priority one by default. Cullen knew he had to see to the mage’s health first or catching whoever had done this would be empty. For now, he just had to hope they didn't flee, trying to keep the options of _who_ and _why_ silent as they bashed about inside his skull, demanding his attention. 

"Dorian." No reply beyond the timid shaking. Gently, trying not to see how the other man flinched away from him, Cullen used his belt knife to cut the gag away, extracting the cord and the bloodied cloth his captors had shoved in Dorian’s mouth. The mage's eyes were clenched shut; still he flinched further as the breath he drug in hitched. Cullen knelt as gently as he could, trying to gather the mage into his arms. He stopped cold when his right hand brushed against Dorian's right arm; the wounded man loosed a muffled, querulous sound, cringed and immediately flinched.

_Breathe in. Breathe out. Simple._ Dorian knew Cullen hadn’t meant to jar his dislocated shoulder, but the little gasp that escaped the other man didn’t diminish the sluice of pain that cut through him, white-hot and blinding. His dislocated shoulder ground against squishy things it wasn't supposed to and eyes stinging, he fell still. Everything hurt and he was freezing...and even though the voice behind him was friendly, Dorian couldn’t bring himself to open his eyes and see whatever unfortunate emotions he _knew_ would be present on Cullen’s face.

Startled by the mage's reaction, the Commander looked for the cause of the problem and found it quickly enough; the shoulder looked wrong, not nestled into the socket as it should have been. Bile slammed into the back of his teeth as he noticed the pool of blood that had gathered on the floor beneath the mage's chest as well. Dorian's eyes were shut tight against the tears that tracked afresh down his cheeks, teeth clenched. The ex-Templar swallowed--twice, _hard_ , to force the anger back down--and tried again, even more carefully, tucking hands that shook into the crook of the other man's knees, and behind his shoulders. It was no small feat to pull him free without jostling him and yet as he did it, Cullen realized he had a different problem.

It was daylight, crowded, all the Hold alive with activity. He could not remove the mage from this room without tens of dozens of people seeing the deplorable condition he'd been left in. The rumor mill would take it from there. It was unlikely that Leliana's people could do damage control on a picture like that; he realized he didn't even trust the healers to maintain proper propriety. Hell, he had proven that already when he'd dispatched Cole. To make matters worse Dorian's skin was colder than it needed to be, his lips tinged an unhealthy shade of blue. Only one option, then.

"Dorian, I have to set you down for a moment, ok?" The mage mewled in pain as his knees met the floor, the change in elevation making his head spin dangerously; vertigo clawed at him, the darkness dizzying. Cullen had to keep his charge heavily braced as he fumbled his own cloak loose with his free hand. Once he'd freed the furs from his shoulders, he gently swathed the mage in them, whisking him back into his arms in the same motion. He felt Dorian shudder.

"The knight in shining armor." The quip was a ragged whisper and yet somehow was forcibly light against the dark backdrop of the situation. The small comfort of the mage attempting his normal grandeur, however inappropriate, quirked Cullen's lips a bit all the same. He could not see Dorian's face from their current angle as the cloak hid his injuries and indeed, provided a coverlet for all the skin his torn clothing laid bare. The bristling fur at the throat hid his face when he receded down into it, curled into as tight a ball as he could manage, groaning quietly when Cullen had to shift his weight to set his grip more firmly. The movement made his insides roil.

“Peace, Dorian, I have you. You’ll be--” his voice cracked, actually cracked a bit just then. The Commander cleared his throat of the disgust that came with an ally injured by their own people. Weathered soldier he was, but betrayal was a bitter taste he’d never had the stomach for. When he spoke again it was as Cullen; as a friend, not a soldier. “You’ll be alright, Dorian, just hold on. Stay awake for me, OK?”

“With all due respect,” came the rasping reply, “-I would rather not.”

"Humor me." Dorian grumbled in response before relaxing ever-so-slightly into Cullen’s hold, curling in and leaning his head against the Commander’s chest as he shivered. The metal was cold to the touch, feeling very much like an ice pack against the swollen gash on the side of his head--the one place more chill was welcome.

The Commander moved to the door, steeling himself, only to be cut off by smoke and a figure materializing again. He hadn't expected the spirit to return so quickly and had withdrawn two steps before his mind caught back up. He frowned and opened his mouth to reprimand Cole for startling him. He wasn't fast enough.

"Wait!" Cole immediately lowered his voice. "I...I can help." Cullen looked at him, waiting. "You want to keep them in the dark, hide his hurts until you can find the ones that did this. I can hide him, you, _us_. Until we reach your office, safe unseen." The ex-Templar narrowed his eyes slightly; try as he might to accept Cole as he was, the spirit seemed to have no end of unnerving tricks up his mismatched sleeves.

"How...?"

"Soften the edges, silent and stealthy but still solid. I can hide you like I hide me, though it makes me tired, and it won't work if you're loud or angry or bright." Cole winced at the black fury in Cullen's heart, twined in a tangle with his worry for Dorian. "You have to be less angry," Cole added, voice flat. 

Cullen's jaw creaked with how hard his teeth were clenched, but Cole's hand on his shoulder was warm. A strange tingle--not quite magic, at least not any kind the Commander had ever felt--settled over him. He pulled the quivering mage tighter against his chest (for whose benefit, he was not quite sure,) noting with a tinge of worry that aside from the shivering Dorian's body had gone slack. Terse but ultimately trusting, Cullen nodded, trying his damnedest to quash the waves of anger washing up his insides from the pit of his stomach. He owed it to the mage to try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I was a day late, business trip (I don't sleep on those, but it's not the good kind of sleepless when you're up all night writing....sadly).
> 
> Thanks SO MUCH FOR THE COMMENTS AND KUDOS, seriously, you ALL rock my socks!!!


	10. I Don't Think We Hear The Same Thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Twofer! :) This is a short one and doesn't progress a lot and I was late so...yeah. Enjoy!

Cole guided Cullen out the door the moment he felt the other man acquiesce, tight to his side and whispering all the while. The spirit tapped the ability that used to be his curse, hiding in plain sight. As he did, Cole could not help it--he had to respond to the niggling insecurities, the mass of little hurts that ganged up on the Commander and tried to defeat him every moment he spent sleeping (and a good deal of the waking ones as well). "Listen to the old song if you need to, you think it's gone but it never truly leaves. The pool doesn't pull you, you pull it, and you still can--when you need it, if you need it, it's there. You don't need the bottle for that." 

The door to the office swung closed, gently, a breeze; two soldiers chatting across the palisade were close enough to look up as it happened. Cullen conspicuously froze but the soldiers merely glanced in their direction, only for a moment, ignoring the door and the three of them as they went back to their talk. Cole kept on, guiding Cullen forward ever so softly. 

"Good, good. Just like that. Step, step, just like drills, just like chess: one foot in front of the other, one move at a time. War is just like words to you, delicate in balance but always deliberate." A courier, head hung as she hurried, swerved around them with naught but a passing glance. Cullen watched her pass, awed in spite of himself and simultaneously fretting over the shivering form in his arms. Cole felt the Commander's attention waiver, dark tide of emotion rising, and reached for something similarly powerful and bright to pull him back. 

"He loves you, in his own way.” The Commander’s train of thought screeched to a halt, successfully hijacked by Cole, who launched into a better explanation. “Proud and peculiar, loud and lascivious. That's the face he shows the world but he is questioning like you are, on the inside. Wounded and wistful, always wondering if he's worthy. He likes that you accept his company when others would avoid it." Cullen winced and it was too late; Cole shook his head emphatically, panicking, and odd combination as he was clearly still very tightly focused on his powers. "No no no, sorry, I tugged on the tangle and tore it. You were supposed to hear the joy, not the sorrow; the sameness, not the sad. ...Ugh." The door swung closed and Cole fell back against it, releasing Cullen's shoulder as he slid down to the floor. The Commander looked up, blinked as the strange feeling faded; they were safe in his office.

"Remarkable..." Fortunately an intrusion took the opportunity then to get his mind off of Cole’s words.


	11. When You Dip Into Someone's Mind

The soft click of the other side door drew his eyes to The Bull, a frown already on his face and bearing a pack that he sat on the floor as he turned to bolt the door shut, doing the same with the one opposite Cullen's desk. The Qunari glanced once at Cole (who nodded, an odd contortion in a man with his head on his knees) and, finding him okay, looked hard at Cullen. He could already smell blood in the air. A frown pulled at the edges of his mouth as he took in the look of the Commander--faced pinched but flushed, furious and worried as hell--but it was as his eye glimpsed the dark hair hidden amongst the fur collar that he started to growl, the guttural sound reverberating in his massive chest. An angry forerunner of a heap of trouble, the danger dwelling in the dark. One of his large hands twitched forward, reflexively, before being forced back to his side, clenched tightly into a fist.

"Where was he?"

"One of the dilapidated towers," Cullen thrust his jaw in the direction, shifted Dorian's weight gently. He saw Bull start to continue and went ahead to provide his thoughts before the Qunari could ask for more. "They did a lax job cleaning up after themselves but there does not seem to much evidence beyond the...bloodstains. Broken rubble, furniture, all of it there from when we arrived. Whatever they used to stifle his magic they took with them--I saw felt no sign of anyone using Templar abilities in there, they leave an aura that tends to linger." Cullen's eyes closed for a long moment, a mental review before he continued. "He was bound and muted. I-" hesitation, "I did not cut his arms free yet because the style of knots on the cords is one I do not recognize--I am hoping you might, perhaps it will tip us off on the perpetrators. That, and his shoulder is dislocated," Bull's turn to blanch. "I rather thought keeping it stabilized with his good arm would be better while I carried him." Despite his worry and his anger, the Qunari was surprised at Cullen's thoroughness, until the obvious dawned on him.

_Of course...ex-Knight-Captain from Kirkwall. Probably not the first time he's come across one of his people in a bad way and had to reconstruct the pieces_. An aside in the back of his head felt his appreciation for the man grow. Cullen was clearly pissed, clearly concerned; The Iron Bull had not seen the damage yet but it was bad, had to be, for the ex-Templar to be this rattled. Still, the other man had his head in the right place. Get the details, catch the bastards, get upset when it was over, if you had to. _A man after my own heart_.

"How many assailants?" Bull questioned, forcing himself in stride beside Cullen, tone clipped and professional: all business. Even if he _was_ rather fond of the target involved. "All posturing aside, Dorian's powerful. I doubt one or two guys would even think about jumping him without some sort of advantage." Bull was willing to bet not even a Templar would want to take the mage on a level playing field, at least, not after having seen the 'Vint fight. Dorian was...awe inspiring, really, all poetry and passion and _power_ out on the battlefield. The big Qunari could appreciate the showiness of style, so very different from his own. He had taken to needling the mage at every opportunity but always worried a small bit that he was going to get his ass fried, one of these days (it would have been a gentle frying, either, he was sure). Dorian couldn't do _anything_ less than grandiose. All the more reason Bull _knew_ this bullshit hadn't been a solo job. 

"From the look of the room and the extent of his injuries? Several. Three or four, at least. He...they..." Cullen closed his eyes for a moment; The Bull could practically hear him reordering his thoughts, pushing himself past his emotions. "They marked him. We need a healer, one with considerable talent and," _how to say it?_ "...and enough decency to keep this to themselves. We have to find the bastards that did this before the entire keep hears about it." 

"Viv--Lady Vivienne." When Cullen's brows rose in surprise, Bull went on to explain. "She and Dorian tear at each other but it's affectionate...They're two high-class peas in a lower-class pod, slumming it with us peasants. She'll help, and she won't judge." He looked to Cole, who lifted his head off of his knees. His large hat flopped like oversized wings. "Can you hide her, kid? People are going to be suspicious if ma'am comes to visit Cullen. I could also use some supplies, if you can make a detour on the way there." The spirit nodded, albeit hesitantly, responding in both the affirmative and the negative as he said:

"She won't come with me, not if I tell her by myself," his tone shifted, became feminine and laced in ice: "Slinking and sneaking, untrustworthy and wrong." Again, back to Cole, as he looked up to meet Bull’s gaze. "She is...more accepting that she used to be, but if I walk in alone, she might throw fire at me." Bull looked at Cullen, who nodded. The three of them were on the same page.

"We can go together, you following behind unseen--I frequently do random patrols and should be able to avoid notice. I will speak with Madam de Fer and advise her on the situation; once you two head back, I'll continue rounds and leave a missive with Leliana to get one or two of her best working on who was where last night. I'll also make sure we're not disturbed." The Commander's face darkened, locking his line of sight on Bull's as Cole vanished from view. "He's unconscious. Take him up to my room, just in case someone should barge in unwarranted. Use the bed and...keep him on his left side when you set him down," Cullen paused, thinking. “I have a pair of tan breeches and a loose white shirt you can use for him. Third drawer from the bottom on the dresser.” The Qunari's brows knit together, frown tugging his lips down, even as he nodded his assent. He was not sure he wanted to know why Dorian was going to need Cullen's clothing but knew he was to learn the answer, regardless.

Cullen transferred his cargo to The Bull, who gently shifted the weight into one arm as he grabbed the ladder rungs with his other hand. A gloved hand--Cullen's--landed on his shoulder and held. "Bull, I..." the other man's voice caught; the pressure in the touch on his shoulder increased. "Steel yourself. He's..." another steadying breath. "I...am perhaps overstepping. Just know that they were unkind. I'll send Cole back with Lady Vivienne as quickly as I can." The Iron Bull nodded again, a quick agreement, collected. He would have to be ‘til this was done. He set his composure in place before he had to lay eyes on what the bastards had done to his friend. Nothing new, certainly, but shit like this wasn’t supposed to happen when then people were _people_ and not just nameless foes out on the battlefield.

Lately, keeping his composure was a little tougher than it had been previously. The Bull knew it to be the first symptoms of being declared Tal-Vashoth. In any case, he didn't need it now--a distraction from his duty was not acceptable. Allowing himself a heavy sigh as Cullen made his exit, Bull headed for the ladder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay lovies!!!! Work was AWFUL this week but I am making it up I swear! Trevy should be home to Skyhold before the end of the weekend, I am just...fixing the things in between. Soon! 
> 
> Thanks again  
> SO  
> MUCH  
> for all the comments, kudos, and bookmarks!!!


	12. I May Vomit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning on the graphic nature of Dorian's injuries in this one, kiddos. Nothing gory but it is admittedly quite vivid. There is some explanation at the end just in case anything is triggering.

By the time he managed to get Dorian up the ladder, unwound from Cullen’s cloak and deposited carefully on the bed, the fire in the small hearth was already roaring, stoked high and chasing the chill from the air. A large basin of hot water was sitting suspiciously on a stool, steaming, clean rags and soap with it. The Qunari shook his head in admiration. Cole was more efficient a wingman than Bull had ever had, and that was saying something. It was an added bonus that his admiration for the spirit helped keep the bellow of anger locked inside him just then.

_**Focus.**_ Appraise, catalogue details, cleanse the damage with the supplies Cole brought, move on to next point of interest. He needed to see the bruises and cuts on the busted mage as a map to the arseholes responsible and _that_ got The Bull past the worst of the rage. There was, admittedly, rather a lot of it today.

Bull checked the knots--distinct, as Cullen said, Orlesian styling in the way the knots curled up instead of in, the kind that pulled tighter the harder you pulled, at least from one direction. Practical, like a shipwright or carpenter’s knot. That would bear looking into. As he concluded he cut the mage free, carefully rubbing his arms to coax blood back into them after hours tied. Welts and cuts around the elbows where the ropes were, stone burns on the arms as well as the backs of his shoulders--hard struggling. Knot on the back of his head from thrashing, slice near his temple like he’d been cut with sheet metal, but blunt--likely plating or the side of a sheathe. Given the deliberate nature of some of the other injuries, likely an accident. His gaze moved over Dorian’s face and head. Nasty bruise and swelling on one cheekbone--broken or fractured, a kick or a punch. Oblong bruises--darker at one end-- around his chin, shoulders, sides--Bull gently removed Dorian’s boots and tattered breeches to confirm and yes, same bruises on his thighs and both ankles. Finger marks. Deeper bruising where they clamped on to hold him down, fingertips darker than the rest of the patterning. A growl rumbled loose from The Bull, the redirection of the fury that was clawing at his insides. He’d mopped up the worst of the blood--he had to see to that shoulder before the ‘Vint was conscious.

 

Dorian kept dipping in and out of reality, plagued by visions that were disjointed enough that he could not discern memory from the Fade, _if_ he was even _in_ the Fade. It felt more like being at sea again (ugh), every bit of him tossed about in a waves of blackness, bashed against rocks. Every so often he started to surface, felt the disjointed nausea and fragmented pains start to solidify into tangible things he could tie to himself, to _Dorian_ , or what was left of him. A stab of discomfort near his eye. The woozy lightheadedness of waking and blood loss. The pervasive, never-ending, Maker-be-damned _cold_ in every Blighted part of him, the shivers it caused wracking his ribs.

Somewhere amidst the confusion Cai wandered into his thoughts. Lately (well...for awhile now, to be more forthright) he'd found the Inquisitor in his mind quite often, dark haired and fiery eyed, staring down some beast or another. The contrast in those eyes was startling, when they'd met his own for the first time after they'd kissed. No less intense but _different_ somehow, flooding Dorian's core with a warmth that had lasted long past the encounter. It had made him feel effervescent at the time, his stomach doing little flips. Now it just made him feel wretched, insomuch as he could feel anything that concrete. _What will Cai think of...all this?_ A poor thing to wonder when he wasn’t evenly properly _conscious_ , to be sure. Nausea surged as Dorian’s equilibrium shifted and the thoughts slipped away.

 

The Bull braced the ‘Vint as best he could. Hard to be gentle but firm all at once and setting shoulders was always a nasty business, difficult to do one-handed and alone, even with a target so much smaller than him. The Qunari half figured his next actions would wake the mage and frowned; he prepped just in case and hoped he was wrong.

 

Pain ripped Dorian back into full consciousness, a flashfire of heat and screaming nerve endings. A huge hand pressed against his mouth and stifled his cry; a second massive palm lingered, heavy and unmoving on his right side, holding the shoulder it had just forced back into its socket. He floundered. Sensory overload disoriented him--a wall of grey, the breeze against his skin, the taste of blood on his teeth. Someone held him in a sitting position and _Maker the_ pain _and he couldn’t breathe_. Dorian gasped ineffectively as tears sprang unbidden from his eyes. He tried to pull in enough air to shout and felt his abused body wail stiffly in protest. 

Right arm useless, Dorian’s left dragged at the hand covering his face. Panic exploded inside him, the kind that locked veridium bands around his heart and chest and throat, tendrils squeezing until every thought and breath was bound immobile. _Maker, I'm **trapped** again, no no **no** have to get out have to breathe have to--_ It was a momentary flash of being pinned, though, the flood of confusion and agony taking no more than a second or two to drive him under. It fled just as quickly, his mouth and right shoulder suddenly free of those overlarge hands. He gulped in a breath he regretted and felt a comforting weight encircle him. Confusion nagged at him just as he started to shake. Heavily muscled arms pressed Dorian against the wall of gray that he only then realized was The Iron Bull's chest.

"Shhh, I know, I'm sorry, I know it hurts," Bull murmured, the words one very deep run-on sentence--a very sincere, gravelly apology. "I had to fix it, I'm sorry." Solid but soft and wonderfully warm, the hug encompassed the mage. The Qunari was mindfully gentle of his charge’s tattered chest and the poor state of his arms. Bull’s apologizing devolved into nonsensical whispers. He went still and held Dorian like he was afraid that the mage might shatter. 

The smell of leather and oil and sweat surged up to greet him--not the smell of roses, but familiar and welcome nonetheless--and Dorian bit back a sob of relief as Bull's grip grew more snug. The warrior held him, muttering quietly in Qunlat. Waiting, patient, as Dorian ordered his jumbled thoughts as best he could. 

Slowly everything started to make sense. He knew where he was (mostly, anyway) and had a vague idea why everything hurt. The latter made him lean into The Bull more intently, the fingers of his left hand wrapped around the cross-strap on the Qunari’s harness. It grounded him, the throb of Bull’s heartbeat, audible as he let his forehead rest against the larger man’s sternum and tried to focus on breathing. _Breathe in, breathe out._ Ouch. _Smaller breaths. In. Out._ Yes, that he could manage. A tiny voice somewhere in Dorian's head (somehow loud among the roaring coming from the rest of him) was beside itself at his weakness but he didn't care, not much. Easier to be disgusted with himself later when he wasn't battered, half-frozen, and actively bleeding. He was _awake,_ not trapped, and for now that was enough. _In and out. In. Out._

How long they stayed like that he didn't know. Dorian composed himself, pushing the dark memories and the shaking down, down, down deeply instead of sobbing himself breathless. He would have marveled at the gentleness the massive man supporting him possessed, had he been in his right mind. Moreover, he’d have been shocked the big brute was helping him at all, haphazard camaraderie or no. One of the Qunari's huge hands rubbed against the mage's back, pushing at the knots that had formed between his shoulder blades from being tied up in the cold all night. He didn't ease up out of the hug before Dorian did, waiting patiently while the mage collected himself. 

When Dorian pushed himself back he felt one large finger gently settle beneath his chin, forcing him to look up to meet the questioning in Bull's one good eye. The appraisal he felt in that gaze eventually drove him to cringe and avert his eyes. The Qunari made a muffled sort of grumble, reaching beside the bed to retrieve the basin and cloth, moving to continue the job he'd started before he set Dorian's shoulder. Bull didn't quite make it. As soon as he'd let Dorian go the man started to fall, gray eyes widening at his body's complete disinterest in doing troublesome things like staying upright. The Qunari noticed, however, and Dorian found himself reclined against pillows with a blanket pulled up to his waist. 

"Your eyes look a little funny, ‘Vint. Did they hit you in the head?" Silly question and they both knew it. Blood was still trickling down from the barely scabbed gash along Dorian’s hairline. Bull's voice wavered ever so slightly as he gently ghosted his hands over the mosaic of colors patterning over the mage's chest and shoulders, probing gently at the bruising fanned across his side where a rib or three lay cracked beneath it. 

“Once or twice, perhaps,” he replied, voice as light as he could manage. He fell short of his intended brevity, euphonious tones roughened as though he’d been gargling shards of silverite all night. He knew what Bull was doing and knew he needed to play along. Enough of his ability to think was still fogged, though. It was bandage enough for keeping the thoughts at bay that he didn’t want to go mucking about, unsure of what he might find. A calloused thumb traced over one very bruised cheek and the mage hissed, successfully distracted. The pain from the light pressure split his skull like a wedge driven into old wood. 

"Fractured your cheekbone by the look of it," Bull murmured by way of apology, drawing away to not cause more pain. A much larger hand lifted Dorian's right one as the Qunari dabbed blood away from split knuckles and followed with a thick Elfroot salve. "What did you hit?" Two of the mage’s rings were bent, the fingers swollen. Glancing at the other hand, Bull noted the mage had finger and thumb that needed to be set. "The wall?” 

"I punched one of them in the head," Dorian sniffed, exhausted. He drew back a bit as Bull raised his head sharply in surprise, nervous of the man's horns. A smile tugged the Qunari's scarred lips up and suddenly he was beaming. Dorian, conversely, was confused, and stared down his aquiline nose at him. Mute, for once. Bull laughed quietly at that, returning to work with a snort and a shake of his head

"I bet the bastard didn't expect a mage to be able to throw a decent punch. Good on you, 'vint." The rumble of appreciation reverberated straight to Dorian's core; as stupid as it was, he half thought his cheeks colored. Fortunately Bull was busy tending to the welts on his wrists and didn't see it. _Well then_. Desperate for something else to occupy himself lest Bull take the silence as a chance to question him further, Dorian cast his gaze around the room and tried to fully place where in Skyhold he’d ended up. Sparse decor, hole in the roof, chess board folded in the corner...ah.

"I'm bleeding on the Commander's bed." The Iron Bull snorted a little, the mirth in the sound falling far short of reaching his eye as he circumspectly continued his task of tending the mage’s rope burns. 

"He's fine with it. He'll be more concerned with seeing you awake and recovering." At 'recovering' Dorian flinched but the Qunari didn’t see it. 

"Nothing to recover from save the bruises, hardly a noteworthy situation in our merry band." There it was, finally. Dorian was relieved his glibness had started to wake up even if he felt like he'd been stomped by brontos in rut. Bull didn’t take the bait.

“I am going to lean you forward again, Dorian--I need to finish cleaning your back. Gonna be a little tough to breathe...just let me know if you need me to give you a break, okay?” The Qunari waited for his muttered agreement before he slowly stood up and moved behind the mage, gently sitting him up to continue his work.

A shadow rustled at the edge of Dorian’s vision, wonky as it was. He lifted his head at the snatch of movement caught in his peripheral vision: Cullen's looking glass, across the loft, perched upon his dresser where he used it to shave. Dorian saw himself, complexion washed out in exhaustion and bloodlessness, his face and neck and arms littered with ugly, mottled bruises. They weren't what held him, bad as he looked they weren't what made bile crawl up his throat at the sight of his own reflection.

Filth. They had carved _**FILTH**_ across his chest in huge, weeping letters that were half fresh wound, half scar tissue. The heated blade had cauterized the text as they went, leaving his once-pristine skin rough and ragged and raised like a brand. 

Garish memories distorted his senses: his frantic screaming, tearing at his throat; hands holding him like irons; the smell of magefire and his own burning flesh. Visceral, the experience surged back to him in full clarity and Dorian choked, throat clenched over the taste of copper and acrid smoke. The Bull knew he'd seen it and his voice lost the quiet pretense it had held before.

"Dorian, don't--" The Bull stumbled, voice thick with some emotion the mage couldn't place, clearly not knowing what to say. What _was_ there to say?

Dorian couldn't help the tears that sprung back to his eyes; he closed them and let his head hang as Bull came around to face him, still supporting the mage’s weight. This time, there was no waiting, no holding off the loathing or the voice in his head. He was disgusting. The mirror had confirmed as much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am hoping I do not need to say this but I absolutely 100% do not agree with victim shaming; nor is this chapter meant to imply that someone who has survived an assault is 'lesser' in any way shape or form. Dorian's thoughts are meant to illustrate his mental state: the fragility of a very powerful, very attractive person weakened to helplessness and left physically marred. I absolutely think this would rattle Dorian to his core, since his abilities and his looks are two of the core things he defines himself with.
> 
> Just wanted to mention, as I am not trying to upset anyone (beyond a little healthy distress wondering what will happen next, of course).
> 
> As always THANK YOU for every comment and kudos and bookmark, it makes me SO FREAKING HAPPY!! <3
> 
> PS - Crude chapter title was supposed to be a reference to the mirror quote in Dorian and Bull's party banter. Different application, this, but...yeah. _Ruins the joke if you explain it_ yes yes I know.


	13. Nothing Like Solidarity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Madam de Fer offers consult.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy CRAP so many wonderful comments to the last two chapters, THANK YOU ALL!! It makes my day/week/all the random moments to see a note with a review. The kudos are always appreciated too!! Just. AHHHH!!!!
> 
> Seriously, THANK YOU! I feel bad, being so happy for tugging on everyone's heartstrings. I keep getting caught at work grinning like a giddy idiot each time I get a comment. WORTH. IT.

Cole hurried along behind Madam de Fer, steps stuttering as he struggled to keep her veiled. It was not that Vivienne was louder than Cullen was--she wasn't nearly as worked up as he had been, naturally--but there were other elements that were making Cole's life difficult. There were so many out in the courtyards this time of day, _too many_ , though even as he thought it, he waved his hands and erased the images of himself and the sorceress from the eyes of said passerby. _You do not see us._. The people that were really close by, close enough to hear the click of Vivienne’s heels, struggled against his powers without knowing they did so. Each time they did a bolt of lightning crackled through Cole’s skull, pounding in his temples and making him sick. He had to try twice as hard to muffle the memories of anyone that close.

Blackness coiled in his stomach and drew up, out, unraveling the things that made him solid at an alarming rate. Hiding _himself_ was usually quite simple; Cole was quiet, his presence slight. Now, though, even that was less true. People remembered him more and more, their thoughts clinging and solidifying him. Each person he forced to forget them was another slice of him gone, now; it took much more of his power to do it, and he was already tired. 

Cole had not had to utilize this much of the darkness in a long time. The pool of it sat always, nestled in his belly, hidden and hollow and tightly pressed down...til he had need to vanish. Not since the whispers and running through dark halls, hunting the Templars that had hurt his only friend, has he felt so close to letting it overwhelm him. Now, like then, he used challenges to keep himself whole, keep himself _Cole_ , to keep himself from becoming the other thing. A demon, or a ghost in white halls.

 _None of you can see us. None of you will remember. I am not a demon. You will not hurt me_. Who was the you, now? Himself? _No._ The fear, maybe, or the hurts he was trying to help fix. Remembering was harder, all the heaviness around him tougher to shed.

Friends were worth it, though, no matter the clamor he made in his own head. Whatever bad came along with it, the wonder of always being seen and remembered won out.

Vivienne was tastefully disinterested in the turmoil going on at her elbow. She was a woman on a mission, after all. She heaved open Cullen’s heavy door, stepping inside with an easy grace that was marred by the strangely dressed male close behind her. Vivienne felt...whatever Cole was doing disintegrate, sliding away from her like a silk shawl. The spirit staggered, started to fall; she could tell he was surprised to feel her manicured hands wrap around his forearms. His blue eyes were wide, an animal caught in the torchlight. She managed to get ahold of him before he toppled and guided his weight more gently to the floor.

"Are you alright, demon?" He felt her concern, veiled behind what she thought was a closed look. The trembling of his limbs echoed in her sharp gaze ( _posturing, measured, always appraising_ ), and used the small amount of warmth she worked so hard to hide to shove back the darkness down. He clenched the spreading nothingness down inside him as it threatened to unmake all he was; searched to find the words amidst all the noise.

"I'm fine," Cole offered and flinched at how strange his voice sounded. Faded, frail, jagged at the edges. He touched the back of his hand to his face, drew it back from under his nose gleaming crimson, "-or, I will be,” he amended. Tiredness tore at him like knives in a dark room. “Thank you."

“You should remove yourself from the path of the door. Should the Commander return he will find you a most unhelpful obstacle.” A pause while she waited for him to process. “Do you require aid to move?” Blearily, Cole shook his head and rather half-slid, half-crawled over towards the wall, out of the way of the door. As soon as he reached the relative softness of the rug he tucked his knees up against his chest, laying over on his side. The woven fabric had been on sheep once. A tiny smile crossed Cole’s face even as his head pounded, the distant memory of open sky and the crisp crunch of grass a welcome whisper he could just barely hear.

“Ma’am.” The Iron Bull’s horned head poked over the side of the loft above. He'd heard them enter.

“Where is the Tevinter?” the woman asked coolly. “Up the blasted ladder, no doubt.” The Qunari nodded, an odd contortion in a man upside down, nevermind the horns. The woman huffed a bit--just the right amount of well-bred disdain--and made her way up. As she neared the top, The Bull offered her a hand up and pulled her gently up over the threshold. “Thank you darling,” she smiled; he bobbed his head in assent, stepping out of her way. The movement was tense and lacked his usual practiced demeanor. _It was as the Commander said, then_. “Is he unconscious?”

“Yes ma’am,” Bull replied. Obedient and quiet, but restless. There was a dangerous undertone to his voice when he added, “He saw his chest and it upset him, ma’am. I got him to take a potion and he drifted off shortly after that.” Vivienne did not walk so much as swagger her way over to the bed, reinforcing the walls before she took it in the damage. One slender hand took hold of the sheet The Bull had pulled up when Dorian had slipped back into the dark behind his eyelids; she pulled it back, her frown immediate.

“He is going to need a great deal more than one, I'm afraid. You cleaned his wounds?” Her tone had shifted, ever so slightly. Only enough for a truly accomplished Player--or perhaps a Ben-Hassrath spy--to notice, but the tightness that pulled her just an iota closer to shrill was there. 

“I did.”

“No doubt you found some evidence to track down those responsible?”

“Some, yes. Ma’am.”

“Excellent.” There was an edge of viciousness to her smile as she looked up at the Bull, one delicate hand outstretched near Dorian’s marred chest. “I will handle the treatment from here, dear. You have done well so far; best to leave the rest to an expert.” The big Qunari nodded. The flare of warmth was her playing him, he knew, but the feelings behind it all were honest enough. He was right about her caring--perhaps in her own way, true--but manipulative or not, she was the best woman for this particular job. 

 

Cole was downstairs, still resting, when he heard Vivienne, planning and poised even though her chest was pained over the state of her fellow noble mage (not that she would say as such aloud). He did it for her, under his breath, understanding her intent and approving just as quickly. She knew how to help heal the hurt, to undo what was done in the dead of night. They may not have been friends but the Iron Lady knew _very_ well that Dorian was wounded in more than just body by the grotesque injuries. The lingering effects would have much more to do with just his looks as well. 

"Cripple the countenance and you crush the contender, a lovely thing made wretched by fools,” the spirit whispered, rocking back and forth, feeling Vivienne’s rage mirrored in his own. So much hurt all wound together, wrought by hate and the twisting of what once were good intentions. He heard her and agreed, reciting her mental litany out loud, if only for him to hear. “This cannot-- _will not_ \--stand. Scars can be soothed by skill and spells. Scour, salve, sear the skin back, beauty born of briars."

Up on the loft, Madam de Fer gave The Iron Bull a sweet, loaded smile. "I will require Lyrium potions--a dozen, no, two. Half a score of royal elfroot to ward against infection. It will take thrice that in regular elfoot for potions. Spindleweed to slow the bleeding and...yes. I will also need as many dawn lotus flowers as the Inquisition possesses. We have them, I was with the Inquisitor when we found them in that dreadful Mire. We should have a half-dozen at least." If any of them noticed her voice catch they were wise enough not to mention it. "Have a mortar and pestle sent along with them. There will be questions as to why we need such vast quantities of these ingredients, however--" 

Cullen chose that moment to enter his office, hearing the tail end of the woman’s soft instructions. 

“I have already mentioned to Leliana that we may need special accommodations,” he called up to them, shrugging out of his breast plate. Fast walking and anger had him sweating. “I will send her the request if Bull can give me the list.” Upstairs, out of his sight, Vivienne nodded at the Tal-Vashoth to release him to his tasks.

“Run along and catch the mongrels responsible, dear. I will take care of the magister.” He nodded, spared one last lingering look at the figure on the bed before making his way down. “Oh, and darling?” 

“Ma’am?”

“Do make sure you leave one alive? I shall need some recompense for the amount of my time this is going to take,” her smile fell into something much more genuine, elegance and brutality mirrored in the flash of perfect teeth against dark lips. “Stress relief. You understand.”

That he did. His grin was no less genuine as he nodded and he headed down the ladder to speak to Cullen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thinking the way the pace is, Trevy should be here next chapter. Trying to figure out who breaks the news o_O
> 
> Also (thank you NyteTyger for the reminder!)the difficulties Cole has hiding in front of lots of people is from Asunder. My version of it, but there are definite similarities. Credit where it is due :)


	14. And... This is How You Want to Look?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Have a 'lil Cole fluff :) (FAIR WARNING this chapter is admittedly not advancing the plot any. I'm not stalling it just seemed like the angst was a bit thick. Sorry in advance for the fluff!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a tiny bit stuck. My plan is to shove past and re-write slight bits if needed later. Grumble.

"I am Cole. I am me. Not a demon, not a..." He paused in his whispered mantra, wincing as his stomach clenched. Color creeped at the corner of his eye. If he looked down really far, he could see the little pool of red he was leaving on the rug-that-had-been-on-sheep. Hmm. He could only hear flashes of the others in the room--odd, since they were LOUD--but the din his own head was making was taking up much of his attention. Muted and muffling and maddening all at once.

"This will hardly do." The voice rang in his ears like an echo down a long hallway, deep but far-off. Cole made a funny little noise of surprise as he felt himself scooped up, still curled in a ball; a glance informed him that is was the Commander who lifted him from his position curled on the floor. He kept hugging his knees, keeping a grip on himself by keeping a grip on himself. 

_Being carried, though..._ It was strange. It was not an experience he'd had anything like since...well, since there had been an _actual_ Cole, and he'd been a little boy with a sister who laughed like birds calling. He'd had a mother who gave gentle hugs and smelled of clover. She was a kind woman but likely would not have approved of his blood ruining the rug. Pulling power to hide the others had him thinking strange thoughts, jumbled and jarring. 

"Does this count as 'weird?'" the spirit asked, fretful; Cullen arched an eyebrow in question. Memories of mothers and many days gone had faded and he was suddenly very aware that he was being carried across a stone room by a Templar. _No, that’s not right._ Cullen _used_ to be a Templar, but he cared deeply about protecting everyone. Panic bolted through Cole. _What if I worry them?_ He was supposed to be the one helping and yet here he was, being helped. "The Iron Bull tells me it’s fine, as long as I don’t make it weird. Does bleeding on your rug count?"

"I don't imagine it does, no," the Commander replied kindly. The spirit was odd but something about the unabashed innocence of his concern was disarming. A small smile was tugging at Cullen's lips, "-and it is _my_ rug, so I believe you may trust my authority on the matter." 

"You're smiling...did I help?"

"Yes, you have helped a great deal." Then, because he had to ask, "Can you not hear that for yourself?"

"No...I can't hear much of anything at the moment," Cole whispered, shaking his head a little. He was too preoccupied to be excited about helping. "The darkness is very loud. Now that I am more real, it takes more to make it quiet again. I am tired." His face scrunched up. It didn't take his powers to see the flicker of confusion across Cullen's face. "I am also not making sense."

"No more or less than usual, so no need for concern," the ex-Templar chuckled at the worried frown that tugged at the spirit's thin lips. "I jest, Cole. Just focus on resting. You have done more than your share of helping today." The smile of encouragement Cullen gave him felt warm in Cole's chest. It was a strange sort of warm, more direct a feeling than he normally got from hearing them. He wondered if it was because he had been _shown_ the feelings when normally he heard them passively. He'd have to ask Varric. Later. When walking didn't feel like the floor thought it was ocean, all rolling waves and movement.

Still, he'd _helped_. Helping felt good.

The spirit found himself lowered gently into the wing-backed chair near the desk. Cold air slipped past the gaps between rock and panes of glass, refreshing and light. Cole leaned his head against the cool stone and stared out the window at the sunlight on the snow. Simple snow, a frozen blanket for the peaks, but so sparkly for a thing without color. _Blankets are usually warm, not cold..._ As though summoned a small blanket found its way around Cole’s shoulders, placed there by hands that were more comfortable around a hilt. Cole's head and his hands don't feel right but the smile he offered Cullen was radiant.

“Thank you.” The ex-Templar squeezed one thin shoulder-- _you’re welcome_ before moving over to address The Bull. He handed the larger man a quill and parchment for the list of things Vivienne required, absently massaging a growing ache at the back of his head. Back to business.

“I will stay and help the lady while you go after them.” Cullen looked up at Bull, folding his arms across his chest. Neither needed to discuss who ‘them’ was. “You will tell the Chargers?” 

“Only the ones I need to figure out who did this shit. Krem, for sure. Maybe Dalish. Some of the staff talk to her in elvish, she may have overheard something. Krem is close with a couple of the barmaids-I am sure the 'Vint was drinking last night." The Commander nodded, gaze a bit distant as he rolled up his sleeves.

"Leliana has one of her best agents--Sparrow--working on finding out information as well. He's been hiding within the staff for months now." Bull grunted his acknowledgement. Cullen glanced up as one of the Nightingale's messenger birds flew in from the hole in the roof. The ugly black thing landed on his desk, cawing expectantly.

"He's come for the little slip you tie to his leg," Cole said, still staring out the window. "The treats are too dry but they taste like sweetness and springtime." He could not see Bull and Cullen staring at him. 

_Just another day in the Inquisition,_ the Commander sighed. _A former Ben-Hassrath and a spirit of compassion, the First Enchanter of the Orlesian Court and the heir to a seat in the Magisterium. All in my office at once._ It was a little surprising to Cullen that the 'who' didn't even shock him that much. The _'why'_ was what churned his insides. Speaking of-

“I have responsibilities to the Inquisition; it will be easier for you to do this undetected," he told Bull. Cullen didn't like it but logic was logic. "Besides, it’s my office. I told my second that I have come down with a “severe cold”--he knows to keep everyone away from here until I say otherwise.” The Qunari grunted an affirmative noise, finishing his list. “Bull, when you find them--” The hesitation in the other man’s voice creased the Qunari’s face in a warning frown and he looked up from his writing.

“I’m not going to guarantee that I’ll leave these bastards in one piece, Cullen. This is not something that you parade in front of the throne and the whole damn operation like it’s any other act of war. It _isn’t_. This is personal.” Cullen smiled; it was, however, far from friendly. He looked into Bull’s eye and said quietly,

“You misunderstand me. I was only going to ask that you save some retaliation for Dorian or, at the very least, for the Inquisitor.” He closed his eyes, seeing something unpleasant in a time that never felt long enough gone. “I have been in a situation where I was not allowed to see my captors put to justice. I can deal with that, _have_ dealt with it. Dorian would be able to as well. Having such pointless violence happen when someone I loved was the one to suffer, though?” a stern shake of the head. “Do not do that to Cai. He does much for all of us--give him the choice. He will likely already be distraught that he was not here to stop it.” A nasty scowl tugged the Commander's features into something much darker, "Not that being here helped."

"I'll make sure the boss gets a piece." That was the least that The Iron Bull could do, and not only because Cullen's apparent guilt rang true with him, too. Beside them the messenger bird clicked its beak in impatience; the Commander gave it the list and sent it on its way, sighing a bit. The Bull let himself out with one last look up at the loft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chap clunks a 'lil...any constructive criticism is welcome. THANK YOU to those that already proffered some feedback to this end!
> 
> You guys. Seriously. You guys (and gals and other). YOU'RE ALL SO AWESOME, thanks for all the wonderful comments!!!!!!!


	15. I'm Surprised You Never Spent Time in the Tevinter Courts...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian is in capable hands and The Iron Bull struggles with the Tal-Vashoth he feels lurking behind his anger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **deep breath** Wow, sorry this took so long. Work being lame coupled with not wanting to disappoint made this a very hard-fought few pages. I know I promised a long one, too--likely the other half of this will be up tomorrow. Have to get Sera's swearing right, after all.
> 
> WARNING for a bit of hate-speech in this chapter, and a bit of violence.

The first time Dorian woke, everything was **_too_**. Too bright. Too sharp. Too loud. Too confusing. Too...everything. There was a fiery pain in his chest but he was freezing, body shaking with a cold that was very different than the burning chill of knee-deep snow. This was bone deep, an ache radiating from marrow outward. All of him, cells included, had communally decided that ‘conscious’ and ‘being’ were not two things that needed to coexist. Not without agony permeating into everything, anyway. Still, someone was talking and it was rude to feign sleep (much as the real thing sounded like a damn fine, if unlikely, idea). 

Opening his eyes didn’t go the best. The colors in his eyes were bright, yellows and reds and golds, but the seeing part wasn't going so well either, as it turned out. Whoever was speaking wasn’t visible.

"...fever. Have.......and finish the stitches before......quickly, then we may see to the scars." The voice was close by and familiar, though only snippets of whatever he...she?...was saying actually registered. A different voice chimed in then and a shadow swept over his vision. The new presence darkened the hot colors before his eyes to deeper versions of themselves.

"...awake." _Am I?_ Someone somewhere lit green fires behind his eyelids, then, and everything faded to black.  
______________________________________________

It was dark, an hour or two after sunset. Bull was stalking the battlements and courtyards like a hunter caged, wary and restless. _Sulking, more like_ said an evil little voice in his head. He was not shocked that it sounded suspiciously like Krem. His second knew how to ground him on those rare occasions something got through his thick hide--literally or figuratively speaking, didn’t matter. Distantly, the Qunari realized that the message causing his upset hadn’t even been left for _him_ , exactly; that dubious honor was apparently Trevelyan’s. 

That made him growl, just enough to feel the euphoria from it, a snarl on the Inquisitor’s behalf just as much as Dorian’s. It was a guttural noise, a warm fury in his chest at having to be _patient_ and keep searching. It was enough to drown the anger that seemed to simmer constantly in him now. That threat, the very real chance that we was no different than the animals on Seheron, was not where he needed his brain just now.

There wasn’t a set thing Bull was looking for--just clues, whispers, anything to help them find the assholes. Between himself, Sparrow, Leliana, and the Chargers, they had several leads and were chasing them down, proving them out through the shadows of Skyhold and the expansive, sprawling camp that resided in the valley below. So far he personally had found nothing but then, he and the ‘vint had been seen drinking together once or twice. The whole thing was making him nuts, even though it was normal protocol--a whisper here, a bought memory there. Find the pieces when they didn't think they'd left any behind. Fitting, and natural, but damn if he'd rather not just find the bastards all playing Wicked Grace around a table and introduce them to his hammer. Quicker and a _lot_ more satisfying.

Bull rounded a corner and started down the steps, a little ways from the tavern. The moon was bright, casting long shadows, and it was deep in the blackness cast by one that he froze. Whispers floated in the still night air, carried from the dark below. 

“--he won’t soon forget.” The voice was hushed, male, worked up but trying to contain it. “Seriously though. A Tevinter magister? With the _Herald of Andraste?_ That shit had to be stopped. We need to win the war, not lose our only hope to blood magic or demons or whatever the hell nonsense they get up to up north. Something had to be done.” A second voice sighed.

“You sound like the villain in a Tethras novel.”

“Villain my ass. When word gets out, we’re going to be _heroes_. Even if I can't admit it out loud at first, I'm going to know I helped save the Inquisition from the temptations of that vile mage.”

“Listen to you, carrying on like a common cur who fancies theatre,” Listener fancied himself higher than most, apparently. _Wealthy, a merchant, maybe, judging by the voice patterns_ Bull thought, even as his nails dug ellipses into his calloused palms. His mind fell quiet as he heard the listener’s tone shift and ask, “The mage did not fight back?” 

“Bastard bloodied Ralen’s head with a cheap shot but beyond that?” A new tone entered Speaker’s voice, something scathing and darker, “he didn’t do a thing except cry and beg. Pathetic when you think of how he carries on.” 

_Above them, still in the silence, red began seeping into the corners of Bull’s vision. Something he’d locked away years ago began to strain, the snarling and clawing of a vicious, primal thing. Old tethers that had felt shaky in Cullen’s office were tested again. They pulled and creaked in his chest as training and habit and learning started to dim in his mind. Breathing was difficult, so he didn’t._

“No matter their power, their triumphs, the mage-lords of Tevinter were men, and doomed to die,” Listener muttered quietly.

“-and we didn’t even kill him,” someone spat, probably Speaker. “All that arrogance and heresy and we didn’t even put the bastard down. No right but the Maker’s to judge.”

“That it is.” Listener agreed.

“Even Julien helped,” he added, nastily. Still making his case. “You _knew_ the faggot needed a lesson when that whiney git lowered himself to associating with the _non-gifted_ -” 

_Crimson from the corner surged to be red throughout; white noise overcame the Qunari's ears, fury and hate and _more_ boiling together. The primal thing tore free, mostly, the tethers that kept it out of his head sundered. It should have surged forth with a tumult, victorious, but the reality seemed more like despair, a concern made real, before Bull was gone. Something else took over, rending and forcing air back into his lungs as something inside him snapped._

The Qunari was a blur of motion. His landing was hard, bad leg giving halfway. The stumble was momentary and slowed him a blink’s time. A dark eye flicked between two bodies frozen: _left, puffy collar, pale skin, stupid mask; right, apron, worn breeches, nice shirt but old_. One a merchant, the other an assistant of some sort. The eye narrowed and a wall of grey muscle lunged.

The disdain was still in the process of fading from Speaker’s face; his sneer was visible for a split-instant before making the slack-muscled slide into a look of fear. To his credit, the moment his body registered the threat, his hand darted for his belt and the weapon he kept there. A large hand caught ( _crushed_ ) the braggart's right arm before it could draw the dagger. The Qunari did not falter nor slow at the keen that escaped the human’s lips. Iron-tight grip locked, he yanked back with a flick of one strong wrist and felt the man's shoulder rip from its socket. The fluttery pull beneath his fingers was the connecting tissue tearing like cheap Plaidweave as his other fist crushed the resulting scream in the man's throat. 

Listener had locked up, terrified, and wet his breeches the moment 275 stones’ worth of muscle and anger slammed heavily into the ground two feet beside him. The feral snarl belatedly registered in his ears as he fell back to the wall, gasping. He tried to cry out but could do nothing but cower, watching his acquaintance dangle like a poorly regarded plaything, suspended in one massive hand. 

Fury faltered in the face of inaction and the lack of a decent fight. Scarred lips bared teeth, calling for a challenge that simply wasn’t. Irate, the Qunari slammed Speaker back against the stone, the soft thump of meat against rock. No cry of pain came so he let the man drop, gasping like a fish on land. Another breath passed; Speaker’s left kneecap make an odd crunch, a small mound of bone destroyed with one well-placed stomp from a _very_ large boot. Still nothing to merit his red-washed sight presented itself. A primal roar started to abate with a confused growl, bloodlust seemingly ignited for nothing.

Speaker talked a bigger game than he backed up; the bigger male had already realized as much. The man slumped to the ground out cold at the feet of his attacker, utterly wrecked in the time it took most to lace their boots. The Qunari's fingers flexed as he breathed-- _snap.his.neck. **snap.his.neck.SNAP.HIS.NECK**_ \--but he didn’t. Wanted to, but didn’t. Bull blinked and shoved the wild thing inside him down, red ebbing to reveal his handiwork. The snarling anger receded, sated for the moment, leaving an oddly large emptiness in its wake. Huge shoulders heaving the former spy stood, pulling his thoughts back to him one by one as his body waited quietly in the cool night air. 

The second man, Listener, didn't have the breath to scream, or was smart enough not to. By the time he realized he should probably run a new presence had materialized behind him. 

“Your associate committed an egregious crime against a member of the Inquisition,” Leliana said. Bull’s gaze flicked over to her before returning to the pile of shit at his feet. Listener, however, didn’t know she was there and levitated a good two inches before turning to regard her. Her face was pale in the moonlight. “Are we to understand you were complicit in this matter?” The Sister’s words were pleasant, almost kind, in their softness. A swath of velvet with a dagger hidden beneath.

“Nonono, madam, I did nothing!” the merchant cried, posturing lost in the cowering stance he had adopted as he cringed away from Bull. “This man is an acquaintance, nothing more.” The silence that descended on them was heavy and long. It was like a comforter in the desert, given the huge beads of sweat pearling on the merchant’s forehead. Finally, after he began to visibly twitch, Leliana nodded.

“Very well--you may go. You will not repeat what you have seen here, nor the tale your ill-fated comrade was spreading. Ever. To anyone, unless you are called upon by the Inquisition formally to do so. Are we quite clear?” He was nodding like a sideshow lackey before she could finish.

“Crystal, madam. I bid you adieu.” His fleeing was awkward, somewhere between a jog and a waddle. It was not long before the shadows across the courtyard swallowed him up. He could not hide forever, however, and the Nightingale knew she at least had 'til morning to get him tailed. His kind were never wise enough to flee without their goods. 

One issue dealt with, the Spymaster turned her attention to the Qunari. Bull was standing still as a statue, huge stature hesitant. She could see the warring in the subtle gestures: the harshness of his breaths, the clenching of his hands.

“This is the result of the Inquisitor’s actions at the Storm Coast?” Leliana asked quietly. Bull looked at her-- _of course she knew_ \--and shook his head.

“Not the boss’s fault.” His voice was gravelly, uneven. 

“You are concerned about your...temper?” Bull laughed at the tactic. Make a grain of sand of a desert, why didn’t she. Still, it was his to deal with and deal he would--’til he snapped for good, or found a way to fix it.

“Make sure your people keep watching me,” he muttered. A fine-boned hand found his shoulder for a moment, the flutter of a bird’s wing. By the time he looked up she was already walking away.

“They never stopped.” The reply was one he expected. The second, less so: “Leave the trash. I will have someone dispose of the body.” _Oops._ Red did her best impression of Cole; stopping, she glanced back over her shoulder and nodded, once. _Good work, Bull._

The filth had been dealt with, and they would continue unraveling the rest. Distantly, almost through a fog, The Bull remembered a name loosed in a moment of explanation and realized he had more work to do. That brought a smile back to his face in earnest, predatory or not.

One down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I balanced progression and character stuff in this chapter better than the last few. The next is going to flow much the same (again, I'm doing finishing touches but if this didn't fix the clunking, let me know and I'll tweak some more.)
> 
> I REALLY appreciate all the awesome commentary and dialogue in the comments, and all the kudos and reads too!! You kiddos are the best! ^_^


	16. I'll Give You That

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sera's disappointed because _really_?
> 
> Dorian is on drugs, sort of, and Madam de Fer asks permission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So YEAH work sucks and I had a bad case of writer's block. I really hope this chapter is not a painful disappointment. I actaully have gotten back on track with some damn inspiration the last couple days or so. 
> 
> THANK YOU everyone for the wonderful comments, your patience, and please let me know any suggestions/criticisms below!!

The second time Dorain woke up he felt like he was being smothered by pillows. Pillows and lead. In fact, he rather felt like he was _made_ of pillows and lead, too: everything muffled, but heavy. The dry tang of Elfroot coated his tongue, a lingering aftertaste of metal present, too; his lips were cracked and swollen. Something fluffy and white had settled just north of his eyes, _just_ visible enough to be annoying in his peripheral vision. He tried to lift a hand to discern what it was and felt everything pitch as though he were back at sea. The room spun when his hand raised an inch and Dorian hastily put it back down. That weird combination of lightness and spinning was oddly familiar….

_Ah._

He was drunk. Potion-drunk, to be specific, though he rarely had the latter experience personally, and certainly never to this extent. He was _sure_ it was that, his vision undulating like the lines of heat in the air on a desert afternoon, tinged with a green glow. The smell of lyrium in the air was thick, ozone scorching his nostrils through the hazy blur muffling everything else. Why had he taken lyrium potions? 

_Hmmm, no. It **smells** of lyrium but I don't **taste** it. Peculiar._ Some other potion, then. Healing was the only other real option, he assumed. 

"The last sequence will have taken care of the internal bleeding, as best as can be expected." Vivienne. Nearby, too, and apparently she was tending to him. He vaguely remembered her asking permission. She sounded exhausted. "The ribs will mend on their own. The last thing that remains is the special treatment for the scarring." The green light had faded, and he noticed the resounding aches from every part of him, buried in the disconnected feelings. Wrapping his head around anything seemed to require him to dig it out first, sifting through levels of nondescript bad feelings about....Oh. _Oh._

Dorian tried to speak, to ask what had happened, but instead of opening his mouth he felt his toes twitch instead. Maker, he hadn’t been this drunk _ever_ , substance notwithstanding. This felt like officiating a sport in a country he wasn’t from, played with rules he didn’t know and explained in a language he didn’t understand. He was lost in his own head and it was _empty_ save some lingering disconcerting imagery of his father in an Orlesian mask.

"Should you not take a break, Madam?" Cullen's voice floated to his ears and sounded rather worn. "We've been at it for hours."

"Indeed, Commander. The more serious things had to be tended first yet I am afraid we must continue. The quicker we remove the scars, the more likely they will heal properly."

"I am still not sure I understand that, exactly," Cullen admitted. _The ex-Templar questions the First Enchanter about magical technique,_ Dorian thought, bemused. _It’d be fitting were it not so mundane_. Even mentally that sounded stupid and the mage grimaced in disgust with himself, distraught when the motion made his face twang in pain.

"It is quite simple, dear," the First Enchanter said, her tone making it clear it was anything but. "The spell forcibly removes the scar tissue. Immediately following, we apply the the poultice I made. The combined effects of the powerful ingredients and the residual healing potion in the blood stream encourage the open lacerations to heal fully at a greatly accelerated rate."

"...and that works?"

"Indeed. Timing is key because the mixture, along with the healing magic, draws on the body's natural tendency to maintain itself. The scar tissue is new, unwanted, something the skin and underlying muscle has not yet adapted to. Playing off of that principle is why the spell works at all." Dorian heard Cullen sigh.

"I will...leave the understanding to you, Iron Lady." Vivienne's clear laugh made the Tevinter mage wince just slightly. Cullen must have seen it because a concerned face topped in sweat-soaked blond curls floated into view above Dorian a moment later. “He’s...his eyes are open again, Vivienne.”

"He's going to be in and out Commander, that much is expected. You do well to keep noticing, as there are certain steps which I would prefer he not be awake for. We will finish our preparations and I will send him under again." Dorian saw the other man’s eyes widen ever so slightly.

Vivienne’s full lips pulled up in a smile Dorian could not see but knew was there when Cullen gulped hard enough for both of them.  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

An hour after midnight and the Herald’s Rest was dark, as expected. Krem sidled up to the locked back door and jimmied it, knowing Cabot had already retired for the night. At this point the only one left in there should be Sera, and maybe Cole. The former came and went via her open window; the latter didn't appear to require doors. The warrior, short his metal plate for once, slipped inside and closed the door behind him. It was black as pitch in the kitchens and he stood still for a moment, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dim.

A loud _THUNK_ sounded from the doorway, followed by vehement swearing. Krem held his breath, playing possum in the darkness. A light bobbed into the kitchen from the greatroom, lighting the growling features of a lanky woman with crooked bangs.

 _Sera_. The elf was so distracted that she didn’t even notice him braced in the shadows. She held the candle in one hand, fumbling about with the sink, swearing when the bucket she was trying to use half spilled.

Krem took a half-step forward; Sera heard the footfalls and startled she squawked, the sound not unlike when one got too close to one of Sister Nightingale's ravens. Krem lunged back as the candle swung at his head; Sera, spitting like an alleycat, lunged away, reaching to her belt for a knife that wasn't there. She swore again, loudly, as Krem's hand snapped out and snatched her forearm.

" _You_!" The Red Jenny's face was comically slack for a moment before her brows knit back together. Recognition lead her free hand to curl into a fist and slam into Krem's unarmored shoulder. "You damn near gave me a heart attack, you giant arse!" Another moment; before the Charger could answer her the elf had snapped, "Oy, have you seen Magebits? With Tiny maybe?" Krem shook his head and opened his mouth to answer again. Sera's face crumpled as her fists clenched, muttering vehemently with a litany of "Nonononono, shitshitshit **shit**."

" _Sera!_ " He put both hands on her shoulders, making her face him. He had seen many of her moods, frequenting the tavern as he did, but he'd never seen her vacillate between them nearly so quickly as she just had. There was also the matter of the fresh bloodstains on her hands...likely the reason for her descent to the kitchen in the first place. Krem was no spy, but working for one had made him rather perceptive over the years. “Sera, you’re covered in blood. Mebbe you start with telling me what happened?” 

She took a few deep breaths before stepping back and shoving the candle into Krem's hand. More collected but still agitated. “Easier to show you, innit?” She dunked her hands in a nearby bucket, roughly cleaning herself up before starting back in the direction of the stairs, fingers merrily _drip, drip, dripping_ as she went. She was muttering darkly under her breath. 

Sera took the stairs like an angry bronto might, feet slamming down on innocent boards that creaked and groaned. Krem followed, bemused, tensing as he saw the pool of blood spreading onto the second floor landing outside Sera's room. A pair of skirted legs were visible within, bent at odd angles. Unmoving.

It was one of the tavern maids, a blonde elf Krem had seen more times than he could count. She was sprawled on Sera's floor, red spreading on the atrocious accent rug the Jenny had procured from Maker-knows-where. A dagger, sunk hilt-deep, stood free of her chest. Krem eased out the breath he'd been holding, a bit at a loss.

"Shit." That summed it up, it seemed, but he quickly found he didn't need to ask Sera again to explain. 

“So last night we were working on Jenny stuff, yeah?" The elf began, pacing. "Then, halfway through, she gets twitchy, says she has a job to do and leaves. Wouldn't tell me what for. Then tonight, she goes on about her work all floaty--like, proud of herself? Came to see me after her shift so we can finish yesterday's bits, yeah? But when we're done," she kept going, kicking the woman's leg, picking up speaking speed as her voice gained volume "-I ask her where she was last night. Wouldn't tell me, so I kept askin.'" 

Krem can imagine what _that_ was like. Sera was like a rabid Mabari when she got her mind set on something. "I got her to crack, yeah? Because I do that. And so _she says_ ," a hitch cracked her sentence and she snarled, clutching her hands into fists. She kicked the dead woman again, "-she says, 'they' had to warn the Inquisitor. Had to tell him there was a 'rat in our midst.'" The last she spits like someone's dumped a bit of dung on her tongue, all venom and disdain and a weird breed of hurt Krem had never heard in her voice before. "Trying to do right by the Herald, she says. Helping Inky, I'm in, yeah? I can get behind that. Then she tells me they did by _slicing up Magebits_. Divine providence or some shite.” Sera kicked her foot at the woman’s side this time, face twisted into a pained frown. “Hurting people. That’s not what Andraste’s _for_ , shouldn't be. Stupid shitfuck prick-ass twats!” Another kick. “I liked her,” the Jenny said quietly. Her face had crumbled. “She was one of ours. Oughta known better. You don’t fuck with the big people who aren't big anymore, 'specially not when they _help us_. Demon factory or not, not because of who they care about. Piss!” Mentioning him, her eyes went wide and she looked at Krem. " _Piss_ , we have to find Dorian!"

"He's alright, Sera," Krem said quietly. A quiet fire was burning in his chest, a mix of anger and pride and disgust all wound into one hot, pervasive feeling. Sera dragged him from it, eyes narrowed.

"Alright alright?" Her face fell again,"-Or hurt alright?"

"From what the Chief said they did a number on him, but he's alive. You know we 'Vint's are harder to kill than that." The attempt at mood lightener falls flat, but Sera pats his arm regardless. "The Commander found him."

"Cully-Wully? Shite." She pondered a moment, face scrunched up as she gnawed on one fingernail. "Did he tell his people? Set them looking?"

"No one is supposed to know about it, mum's the word 'til we track down the arseholes that did it. They think there may have been soldiers involved, so only a couple people know." Krem's Tevene drawl showed more in moments like this, moments when he was pissed off. "Though, you got one. The Chief got another, earlier, along with a few leads. We're not sure how many there are." The Tevinter jerked his thumb at the dead woman. "She say anything 'bout how many there were?"

"No." Another kick. Krem kinda thought he should stop the elf, but then again, the bitch had earned it, and if it was making Sera feel better... "Right. Let's get rid of the trash then, yeah? Not doing any good laying in here frigging the floor up."

________________________________________  
He'd not been out long when her clear, cultured voice pulled him out of the void behind his eyelids.

“This is going to be extraordinarily unpleasant, my dear." Vivienne sounded certain, and a little sad. There was also the uptick in tone that denoted a question. Not one he wanted to answer. He was rather wishing all of it was done. 

“It is not worth...you needn’t bother.” His voice was small, quiet in the stillness. _Pathetic._

“Nonsense. You know very well that--” she had cut off. Taking in the look on his face, no doubt, and Dorian knew his expression was pinched and upset. Very much unacceptable, flaunting such a moment of weakness to someone like the Iron Lady, but he could not summon the gumption to school his features just then. He was tired and raw; everything hurt. Let her take from it what she wished. 

The enchantress allowed herself a small sigh, softening her voice. “Darling.” A long finger found his chin and lifted, gently calling the other mage to raise his eyes. “I cannot guarantee that I can fix the damage, but I would like to try. Will you allow me? I will not inflict the treatment if you do not wish it.” She'd smiled, then, and for once it did not look like she was waiting for the best place to plunge something sharp. "Come now, dear. Modesty does not become you in the slightest...nor should it. Shall I proceed?"

Dorian pondered it: it was weak, he knew, to go to such lengths for vanity. After...all this, though?...he no longer felt confident in much at all and the thought of his reflection, of having to look at those letters... _be seen_ with those letters, foul and permanent and carved into his chest...

A quiet nod was all Madam de Fer had received in response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Magebits is Sera's nickname for Dorian. I have had that as head-cannon forever. **shrugs**


	17. Some Of My Best Friends Are Murderers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG THE DELAYS. I'm going back to shorter more frequent updates kiddos, I'm taking too long getting bogged down with WIPs. (thank you CyberFairie and Little_Abyss and Sereda and EVERYONE ELSE TOO who has said such wonderful, encouraging, and helpful things. Seriously. There aren't words for how much it means to me that random folks on the 'net care enough to help pull me through my writer's block/whiny nonsense. It's so awesome <3)
> 
> Also, played with a lil cannon dialogue in this chap. If I ever forget to mention I apologize!

It was later, under the cover of darkness, that the those working in the loft heard Cullen's door open. The Commander had his hands full tying a bandage so it was the Iron Lady who glanced down to the intruders in the office below; given the hour, there was no risk of someone untoward seeing her.  

"My dears," she called down, elegantly miffed in a way only she could pull off, "we're not finished. It's also dreadfully early."  

"Apologies for the intrusion Madam Vivienne but we needed to speak with the Commander." Leliana's Orlesian tincture was cordial but also left no room for discussion. She looked sharp as an Antivan blade as always, despite it being close to sunrise. Cullen heard them as he finished the knot and nodded to Vivienne, looking for a towel to clean the blood off of his hands with. He failed to find one and settled instead for wiping them on his pants. The First Enchanter made a rather disenchanted noise, returning to their patient as Cullen headed down to join the Spymaster, Sera, the Bull, and his lieutenant.  

"So I've been thinking-- shut up," Sera said, pointing her finger at the ring of people gathered with her before she went on, "-we ought to compare stories, yeah? I mean, the bitch in the tavern didn't say much, but some of it might have been useful."  

"That's why we're here," Bull confirmed. He was fidgety, shifting his weight from foot and flexing powerful hands every few moments. When Cullen descended the ladder with his shirt stained red the Qunari snarled. It didn't take the look from Leliana to let him know he was losing his temper--he damn well knew that himself--but it did give him the push to cross his arms over his chest. "We have three of them. Two dead, one alive and not talking." 

Cullen raised an eyebrow even as he frowned.  "It has been an...eventful night I take it?"

  "Something like that," Bull growled; Sera nodded vehemently.

  "We talk now, get to it, and we make a plan," the Jenny confirmed, the promise of vengeance setting a gleam to her eye not unlike the one in Bull's. "A _good one_ , yeah?"   
_______________________  

Strong hands were on his shoulders; burning white heat dragged across his chest, searing flame honed to a scalpel's edge. The flares of pain expanded, grew wider, before narrowing again as the cycle repeated. Equal parts rending and reversing, tearing and knitting, bearing open and pulling closed, as though someone was cutting out a bad stitch and sewing Dorian's chest back together with fire.   

_He could not tell if it was seven pairs of hands or three. He could not see well enough to know if they were the cold, judgmental glares of strangers filtered through the funereal stillness of masks, or the faces of a couple of friends, twisted in exhaustion and worry._   

It was endless, the cycle, and it burned him, chilled him like the energy of every primal spell he'd ever loosed was being borne back against him. Deft hands wielded agony like the Inquisitor wielded his blades, fluent and deliberate, every movement planned.  The cycle was all he knew, for a span of time Dorian couldn't articulate. 

Finally, though, there came several consecutive moments where the pain subsided from a hurricane of sensations to a dull, battering storm at sea instead. His blood felt too cold, ice seeping in all around him; his skin felt too tight, too small for even the small breaths he managed. He was whipped about in darkness, eyes untrustworthy, ears unhelpful, drowning as he was. It wasn't literal (he knew enough to know that) as nothing but his cheeks were wet.   Still, when a calloused, slim hand closed around his own it felt no less a lifeline, a tether through rolling waves back to something solid. 

After another long set of moments Dorian realized whomever had been burning him had stopped: all the aching and disparity of a body that felt foreign, all of it was residual. The knowledge of that alone was calming, at least a little, soft like the pillows behind his back and the touch of rough skin against his palm. In the dark room, further off, he could hear someone muttering in soft whispers against the darkness.   

"Blessed are those who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter."  

_Wicked? Perhaps. I am certainly corrupted,_ the mage mused, his father's words an echo behind the prayer. He was a little relieved the thought didn't make him wretch as it had before, even if he knew he was wallowing. The voice went on.  

"Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood, the Maker's will is written." Cullen. It was the Commander's voice, quiet and strained and reverent, moving through the verses.  

_I'm not dead,_ the mage wanted to say. _Save your Canticles for the people that have earned them._ The idea that someone was praying--for _him_ \--made his throat clench.  

"It isn't for you," Cole murmured quietly, raising his head from the mattress. For some reason the statement wasn't jarring and nor did seeing the spirit there shock Dorian in the slightest. Cole gave his hand a gentle squeeze from where he'd laced their fingers together, "It's for _him_. The anger burns like a demon's brand, a hot knife twisting in the gut, but he must be patient. See to the soothing before you bring the bastards to burn." The spirit's unnervingly blue eyes stared into Dorian's; he offered the mage a sympathetic smile and another soft squeeze. "He's concerned for you. They all are."

  "Hardly worth it," Dorian muttered in reply. He swallowed thickly, letting the rest of the quip die as his eyes fluttered closed. _Too much._

  "You're wrong," Cole replied, curling up to lay beside the mage again. He rested his head on Dorian's thigh as he pulled his body up into a tight little ball, still holding the mage's battered hand. Dorian didn't rebuff him, nor ask him to leave. "Bright, like the fish that kill you if you eat them," Cole mimicked, a bitter recitation of a broken mantra. "Can't hate you for hiding if you burn so brilliantly."   

"Apparently they can," Dorian said simply, too close to sleep for it to hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got a Tumblr!  
> Dichotomous-Dragon.tumblr.com  
> (I am too dumb to make HTML links work apparently -_____-) 
> 
> Comments and feedback of all kinds welcome! Thanks for reading!


	18. Who's Judging Now?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Word is out, Dorian is self-conscious, and Cai finally returns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my love and thanks to [Little_Abyss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/little_abyss/pseuds/little_abyss) and [Cyberfairie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Cyberfairie/pseuds/Cyberfairie) for their wonderful input and beta-ing and just generally being wonderful people. You should check out their work if you have not because _seriously you guys_.
> 
> Sorry as usual for taking so long.....many thanks to all of you that are still hanging around!! (real life = lame)  
> ____________________________

The rumors started much more quickly than they'd hoped. By breakfast there were whispers, quiet speculation behind raised hands and in near-empty corridors, as quiet and insistent as the wind through the innumerable cracks in Skyhold's walls.

_...but I heard he was doing blood magic and one of the Templar's got wise and stopped him. Don't think they killed him but..._

_...'bout time someone did something. Have you seen the way he clings to the Herald? Unnatural. ‘Bout sure there was some magic involved. I wonder if he needs to bind the Inquisitor to him again, now they've been separated..._

_...taught him a lesson. He needed to learn he weren’t fooling nobody with that “I’m different” act of his. Maybe this will be enough to run him out of..._

_...in the middle of the ritual he was doing! I heard it was something about making himself more handsome, or mebbe to make it warmer? Either way...always see him looking at the elves in the keep like they’re ripe for the picking, probably for blood magic like they do up north! I bet he..._

Leliana heard of most of them by lunchtime, directly or indirectly, and sent for Sera and Krem right around the time the noon bell in the courtyard rang. Some of the rumors in the mill were capricious; others, downright absurd. A couple were stupid. One or two of them, however, were far too close to the truth to be conjecture.  
_________________________

Dorian woke to warm sunlight pouring in through the holes in Cullen's roof. The pattern of warmth on his face was a stark contrast to the rest of him. He was not a morning person per se ( _was it morning? There was sun. It was day. He knew that much_ ) but this was different. He'd woken up enough times since Vivienne and Cullen had finished that he no longer needed to reconstruct everything from the hazy fog of mixed memories each time he did; he knew from the moment unconsciousness started to slip away from him exactly where he was and _exactly_ how he'd gotten there. It was unclear whether that was an improvement. His body's utter lack of responsiveness wasn't which, at the moment, was causing him a rather upsetting issue.

He had to relieve himself **desperately** and yet Dorian could not even begin to coordinate himself well enough to move. The chamber pot was behind a partition opposite the bed and was far too long a walk for Dorian to manage, if he could even stand. He couldn't. He knew he couldn't. _That_ realization made him want to curl up and sob, or vomit, or scream...to do something, _anything_ suitable for how wretched he felt. Apparently his talent at posturing and veiling his moods had gone out the window with what remained of his self-respect.

"Cullen," Cole said from near Dorian's knee, startling the mage. He hissed in pain as the jerky motion when he jumped and rattled his damaged ribs--he’d forgotten that Cole had been keeping him company as he slept. "Dorian needs some help." The Altus dragged his hands down his face and groaned, swallowing a half-dozen curses before they could burst forth. 

"Cole, _Andraste's ass,_ leave it be!" Dorian hissed. He was frustrated and miserable but still did not have the heart to swear more vehemently when the spirit's eyes locked on his own. Cole thought about it a moment and Dorian swore he started to blush before the boy even started to speak.

"It's not embarrassing Dorian. Just think, you could have been naked. That would have been worse." Another groan as the mage realized he was dressed (and indeed, not in his own clothes) and instead found himself in a pair of comfortable linen trousers and an open-throated, full-sleeved white shirt. It was threadbare and soft, a little too big for him, but managed to not aggravate his injuries or the thick winding of bandages around his chest.

Which meant, of course, that he likely _had_ been naked in front of one or more of the Inquisitor's closest colleagues. Cole was one thing, Cullen too, but-- _Maker_ had he been naked in front of _Madam de Fer_ because he'd let himself fall prey to...

The Commander appeared at the ledge, ascending the ladder and forcing Dorian from his thoughts because how disparate Cullen looked from his norm. He was dressed much like the mage was--in just a shirt and pants, his armor on its stand in the corner--and he smiled a little at Dorian as he approached.

"You're awake. Maker's breath, that's a nice change,” a gloved hand rubbed at the base of a head of blond curls: a familiar nervous tick. “How are you feeling?" 

"Rather like a burden," the Tevinter replied with a sniff. It was somewhat telling that he didn't have anything more clever than that to follow with, all his normal pompous frippery rather drowned in bandages and a still-lingering fog of elfroot.

"No need for that," Cullen muttered as he pulled Dorian's left arm across his own shoulders and lifted the man to his feet. "Honestly, it’s rather impressive that you’re awake at all. Madam Vivienne did not expect you to be for at least another twelve hours." Dorian did not respond, just awake enough to be mortified that the Commander of the Inquisition's armies was helping him to the privy. Cullen’s speech did not stammer awkwardly as it had so many times when they played chess; instead he got a quiet kindness. "There is no shame in needing a little help, Dorian. This happens to soldiers when they're badly injured all the time. I am sure the Chargers would tell you the same." The ex-Templar kept his eyes forward, watching their step, but as Dorian looked at him sidelong he did not see the pity he expected. Cullen's smile was tight, his voice somber as he added: "You don't believe me. I never believed it either, when it was me.” The only sounds for a moment was the thunk of their feet against their floorboards, soft beats an echo through old wood and cut stone. Dorian flinched when the other man’s calloused palm tightened against his hip. “I’ve been the one asking for help more than once, Dorian. You shouldn't...you can’t think less of yourself for it.”

_Failure like this is a weakness. It is not something that should be necessary, not for me_ Dorian thought, but did not say as such out loud. His thoughts had very little to do with Cullen. Out loud he simply said:

“I didn’t ask.”  
_____________________

"It's a job for you, right? The Inquisition? But not this part. So, why?" Sera questioned. She was fiddling with a fraying edge along her tunic. The two of them were as mismatched as the daggers Cole carried on any given day, Sera in her red top and screaming yellow plaidweave, Krem solid and predictable in his armor. The Charger looked at her for a long moment, realizing he was walking into potentially dangerous territory with the conversation. Sera was a bit of a splash grenade and they had a job to do.

"I could ask you the same--we all know you've no love for mages. Noble ones, to boot," Krem replied, shifting a pauldron into a better spot. A light breeze stirred the fresh-fallen snow around them, sky lit and just sunny enough to be pleasant. Damn shame their task wasn't going to be.

"Dorian's alright," Sera said, frowning. Thoughtful, or as thoughtful as she managed to be. Krem had noticed from experience (as well as Bull’s stories) that Sera managed to be oddly insightful at strange moments. "He keeps his rubbish to himself, mostly. Not big anymore, either, you know? Left the gold-shitting behind. Poor as the lot of us now--more, mebbe, since he doesn't get side work like the rest of us, on account of being a magister." The elf narrowed her eyes and punched Krem in the shoulder, knowing she'd been sidetracked. "Right. Now answer _my_ question, eh?"

"I've no love for the Altus, if that's what you're asking," Krem started, though hesitantly. Even as he said it it didn't sound right, his own tone rankling. Sera looked at him quizzically.

"That 'cuz of Tevinter rubbish?"

"Yes and no. Dorian's..." Krem huffed a bit, ordering his thoughts. "Chief seems to like him and the big ox is a pretty good judge of character, most times," a second burst of air escaped the Charger as a sigh. "I don't mind him I suppose. Whines too much, preens too much, but he holds up his end in a fight just fine. This attack, though." The man's face darkened. One part righteous disgust, one part memories of his own experience: a unification of shit past and present that made him want to hit things. Hard. Without stopping. "This is exactly the kind of shit that would have happened in Tevinter, though maybe not to someone as high up as him. Exactly the kind of shit we both left behind." If Sera noticed an unusual amount of kinship in the 'Vint's tone she didn't say so. "Nobody deserves this kind of shit, Sera. Not for being who they are."

"Damn right." The young woman growled, jagged bangs bouncing as she nodded vehemently in agreement. The two of them lapsed to silence. They rounded a bend a small group of Inquisition soldiers became visible. There were only five of them, walking down the trail on a routine patrol. There were supposed to be at least seven. Sera made a side-eye at Krem, who nodded--these were still likely their guys. "Oy!" The Jenny’s yell made the soldiers pull up short, stopping their descent down the path outside Skyhold as the stringy blond elf and her broad-shouldered companion came into view.

"You need something?" The speaker was Orlesian. Sera shot Krem another look; this one he blatantly ignored, keeping level eyes and a neutral expression trained on the soldiers instead. 

"Looking for Ralen, we were told he was in this squad," Krem said simply. Bland tone, proper protocol. "Don't suppose any of you are him?"

"Depends on who's asking."

"Bloody helpful, that," the elf snorted, going completely against Leliana's explicit instructions to be formal. "It's a request, alright? They don't tell us the details, it’s all ‘Here’s who we need, you go fetch,’ innit? You're needed by some people who are higher up the chain than us," she finished, recovering slightly. The soldiers shifted, two of them with carefully blank looks on their faces.

"This wouldn't have something to do with a certain _magister_ would it?" He spat the word. Krem cleared his throat but not before Sera’s rude raspberry overtook the sound.

“What did I _just say_? Do you need listenin’ holes cut in those helmets?” She was doing a bad job hiding her annoyance. "We. Don't. Know."

"Why would they send a--an elf and a mercenary when a runner would have done just as well?"

"Jarred," one of his fellows muttered, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Uneasy. Restless. Krem felt the muscles at the base of his neck start to knot up.

"No. I want to know," Jarred snapped, frowning at Sera. 

"Maybe because the big-britches know you're a daft tit who asks too many questions?" The blonde asked; one of the other soldiers swore in Orlesian.

_So much for formal_ , Krem sighed mentally, tension rising in the people around him like steam from a pot set to boil. Not for the first time, he ached for his maul, palms gathering sweat inside his leather gloves.

"Or maybe because we were handy, hell. I dunno. We're all on the _same team_ , for frig's sake. Just come with us." Sera finished, and Krem knew it to be her attempt to reconcile the meeting. Her tone was almost pleading-- _prove me wrong_ \--and the Tevinter was a little surprised at that. Ever before the Jenny was gung-ho for a brawl. Hell, she'd been gung-ho ten seconds before. But, this was important and she was trying, and to be fair, the soldier _was_ being a bit of a tit.

"I don't think so," Jarred said finally. Ralen, the Orlesian who'd sworn, nodded to another of his fellows and fanned out from Jarred's side. Widening the area of attack. _Shit._ Another of the men still held back, though, looking uncertain.

"I don't...are you sure? Maybe it's just a summons," he offered. 

"Or maybe that magister has half the Herald's inner circle under blood thrall by now. He's certainly had the time." Ralen snapped, heavy accent clipped and angry. Sera and Krem both scowled at that, the former drawing her bow while the latter hefted his fists up. "You know he enthralled the Commander as well. You have seen them in the garden, no?" He spat in the dust at his feet. "We should have put the mongrel down when we had the opportunity and allowed the Maker to handle the rest!"

"Oh no frigging way--" None of them save Krem even saw Sera move, lithe limbs and long legs carrying her the few steps forward. The arm of her bow struck like a serpent, supple wood snapping into the Orlesian's jaw with enough _**SMACK**_ to be heard a half-mile away. He made a very undignified squawk--not unlike an affronted hen--and fell heavily onto his arse from the force of the swing.

Krem had noticed the two men sliding into fighting positions behind them before Sera launched into action. The Chief would laugh if he told him...well. He would _usually_ have laughed. Not so much the last couple days. Maybe not even before that, given that they were now squaring off against their own people over a colossal beating they'd given _another_ of their own people. 

This whole thing was _fucked_.

Sera rolled to avoid the first retaliatory swing at her head, pulling her bow from the downward arc of her swing and belting the attacking soldier across the face with it before tucking into herself, lithe body kicking up dirt from the path. Krem ducked, boosting the man that charged him from behind over his shoulder and forcing him to smash into a second charging foe. The two fell in a heap spitting like feral cats, a mess of limbs and metal.

"Look alive!" Krem snagged Sera's hand as she tumbled by, hoisting the girl back to her feet with one arm and taking the fist aimed at her head with the armguard of the other. A yelp sounded as the blow fell, Sera dancing away to trip another pursuer while Krem levelled the first with a solid right jab to the nose.

Sera laughed, spinning around another attacker. It was not a mirthful sound, more the high-pitched breathlessness of battle fever; her smile was just as humorless, especially when a kick from Jarred caught her in the side. A blink later an a gauntleted fist twisted into the front of her tunic and hauled Sera to her tip-toes, a heavy fist slamming into her cheekbone. Stunned but not slowed she stabbed bony fingers into a pressure point right under his arm where the armor gaped an inch; Jarred dropped her like a lead weight. Sera stumbled back and away, clutching her side and wheezing through a bloody grin. 

The three-beat rumble of hoofbeats pounding the ground surged to the forefront as a sweat-stained Anderfel Courser rounded a curve in the trail at a gallop. The action froze comically and the animal reared slightly as it was pulled to an abrupt stop. Clenched fists hauling on its bit stopped the animal short just as the people in the clearing stopped short. Krem's fist was curled into a man's uniform; Sera's fist was drawn back to her ear. Cai Trevelyan’s face was twisted in confusion as he took in the combatants--all of whom were his people--and the state of the brawl. One of the soldiers took advantage of the freeze-frame moment and landed a solid hit on Krem, all four fingers crunching into the back of the Charger's head. 

“ _Kaffas,_ ” the Tevinter growled, stumbling, as the soldier yowled at the pain in his fingers. At the same moment Sera roared “Hey! That’s cheating, you tit!” and landed knees-first between the man’s shoulder blades, riding him to the ground much as she’d done with Blackwall’s shield that time down the Great Hall stairs. His face hit the dirt with a loud _thwak_.

The Inquisitor dismounted, swinging down from the saddle and using the momentum to kick a man who was chasing Sera. That only left Jarred, panting but back on his feet, to be taken back down to the ground by a punch from Krem he didn't see coming.

Cai Trevelyan backed away from the man he'd just dropped like a sack of wheat, shaking out his abused right hand. His pale cheeks were flushed from the wind, his dark hair flying loose of the low horsetail he normally wore at the base of his neck.

"So...what'd I miss? I am assuming the two of you aren't going around assaulting Inquisition troops for fun," the Inquisitor said lightly, though the gaze he levered on Sera was rather questioning. One eyebrow arched towards his hairline.

"Not at all, your Worship," Krem supplied carefully. He did not know if the Nightingale had briefed the Inquisitor about what had happened. Seemed like a "no," all things considered. "Sorta long story, though--when did you get back?"

"One of Leliana's people caught me as we hit the last camp down the path, said I should ride ahead and go straight to see her. It's..." Cai trailed off. Krem realized then that the posture he'd assumed was confusion before was actually tension. The Inquisitor's entire being hummed with nervous energy, sliding from one small tic into another as he transfered weight from foot to foot in rapid succession and twisted a finger through a loop in his belt. "The others won't be that far behind but I grabbed a fresh horse and came alone. Faster, no risk this close to Skyhold. Since Leliana called me ahead, I figure it's got to be something awfully important." He glanced down at the groaning man at his feet. "This seems important too, though, so....mind telling me what's going on here?"

“Like Tin-Vint said, Inky--long story, yeah?” Now it was Sera who shifted uncomfortably. “Mebbe you ought to go see her. The sister, I mean. She can tell you about--"

"Chief will be waiting there too I bet," Krem cut in, one decibel on the wrong side of overloud. "Might be better for you to be debriefed by him or Leliana, sir." Cai’s eyes lingered on the two of them, on the Inquisition men unconscious or groaning on the ground. "This is directly related, sir. We can take it from here, a couple of the Chargers will be along in a few. They were gonna follow ten minutes behind us." The Inquisitor looked torn between rushing off and staying behind to help and demand an explanation, frown folding his face into harsh lines. He settled on the former, finally, giving them one last pointed looked before swinging back into the saddle and taking off towards the keep.

"Right," Sera muttered glumly, "So, _that's_ going to be bad."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always for reading!!!
> 
> I'm not gonna make any more promises about being faster because I really don't like lying!! I will try to do better.


	19. In Case You'd Forgotten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cai shows up (as expected). Someone else does too (not so expected).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am **all the sorry** for being the absolute worst and taking forever.  
>  Bless those of you that are still with me and as always, comments and crit are also much appreciated and welcome!

By the time Cai made it to Skyhold proper he’d built himself into half a frenzy trying to figure out what was going on. It was bad, or Leliana wouldn’t have called for him; it was strange, or Krem and Sera would not have been brawling with Inquisition soldiers in broad daylight over questioning. 

He left his horse with a stableboy and hurried into the keep, more upset than ever at the jaunt he had to take to the Hinterlands. He had not wanted to leave Dorian so quickly after they'd met with Halward but he hadn't had much choice. A missive they'd received had spoken of a group of rogue templars that had traveled as near to Skyhold as they dared from the Free Marches. They had remained true to the Order's purpose, or so they claimed, and requested Cai's presence for a meeting to see if they were welcome to join the Inquisition. The Herald had formally backed the mages and not the templars; they were not sure they would be welcome. Cai had little choice but to go personally and even less so to leave Dorian behind. Bringing a mage at all was a stretch, and bring a Tevinter Altus was very likely to cause more problems than not. He'd taken Solas instead. The elf had napped in a nearby ruin as the meeting took place to remain inconspicuous, close enough to be reached if needed but out of sight enough that the there was no risk of the templars being upset by his presence. The meeting had gone well, the templars understanding they would be required to answer to Cullen and respect their former charges once they made it to Skyhold.

Apparently, in the meantime, something had happened. He had reliable tells in his hands and his head when he was going to get a stress headache, largely a result of the small nervous tics he did with his fingers to keep himself occupied once he started getting tense. His fingertips had been tapping one at a time against his thumbs since he got inside, two knots building in the muscle at the base of each digit. A dragon-sized headache was already beginning to mount an assault between the tight pain tugging just north of his eyelids.

Paired reliably with the dull aching in his palms, it had become very familiar as of late.

Cai took the steps just past Solas’s rotunda at a run, hoping to catch Dorian before continuing to Leliana on the next floor, but the mage’s nook was vacant. Books were stacked in their usual places, the chair unoccupied. Worry was a tightening noose on Cai’s neck, a fracturing fissure in his chest. Dorian was _always_ in the library at this time of day, researching and cataloguing and, to a certain extent, avoiding the other denizens of Skyhold. _Overreacting,_ Cai scolded himself, hurrying on up the stairs.

 

"I spoke with Fiona...there is no record of any mage named Julien with her people." Leliana remarked, absently running a finger down the spine of the black bird perched on her wrist. The ugly thing cooed like a chickadee under her touch, heavy claws flexing small gouges into the leather of her glove. "She also admitted it's entirely possible he joined them when they were aggregating in Redcliffe. It grew difficult to keep track once they'd left their respective Circles." Bull allowed himself a gruff exhale of irritation.

"Perfect opportunity for a spy to assume an alias and blend in," he went on, since they were both already thinking it. "Going to be damn hard to pick him out when he's using a fake name and half these mages didn't know one another to begin with." The Sister nodded.

"Agreed. I have someone on it but the going is slow. The mages are still very jumpy."

"Just what we need,” Bull growled.

"There is also the matter of the templars the Inquisitor went to meet with. I was just told a second group joined them as they followed him back through the Hinterlands and with them--" the Nightingale cut off as a series of uproarious caws preceded Cai’s arrival, black feathers rustled loose from flapping wings that then wafted down like dark snowflakes. She and the Iron Bull stood close together and still she knew she would not hear Bull over the birds. Cai was panting as he cleared the last stair, faint sheen of sweat on his face. She saw his eyes narrow when he he saw the Nightingale and Bull, knowing they had the look of people who’d been speaking in hushed whispers a moment before. Dark things being hashed out as quietly as possible. "Inquisitor."

"Hey Boss." Bull watched Cai as he tried to put his Inquisitor face on, to bury the tension in his shoulders and the furrow in his brow. Former Ben-Hassrath or no, it didn't take a genius to figure out that the Inquisitor wasn't great at hiding personal worries. He was doing rather well with the whole 'weight of the world' thing, all factors considered, managing the heavy decisions with as much grace as anyone could ask. The little things, though--the personal concerns of his advisers, the needs of his Inner Circle--those were the elements in which Cai's true character was brutally visible. He cared deeply and did a bad job of hiding it. _Something he and the 'Vint have in common_ Bull thought and for all the shit, smiled a bit.

"I'd say 'good afternoon' but I feel like it isn't one," Trevelyan said honestly once the birds had fallen mostly silent, their only remaining sounds those of rustling feathers. He looked at Bull, "I came upon Krem and Sera fistfighting with several of our soldiers. I helped a bit. They had it mostly in hand." 

"I kinda figured those guys wouldn't come quietly. Thanks Boss."

Cai did not miss a beat pressing on. "Which begs the question of why we'd need them to come at all. For questioning, it appears, but questioning regarding what? Because I got your message," he said at last to Leliana, who nodded; a casual flick of the wrist dismissed her feathered friend to go back to his fellows as Cai continued "-and I figured it wasn't good news. So...what happened while I was gone?" The Spymaster glanced at Bull, who tipped his horns. Proceeding to the railing, he glanced down into the lower floors and rotunda and whistled once. A single whistle sounded in return.

"All clear," the Bull confirmed; Cai managed to keep his surprise off of his face. Of course the two of them would not speak where they could be overheard. The knot forming between his shoulders eased ever so slightly: maybe they had told Dorian to make himself scarce and that was why he was absent.

"Inquisitor, while you were away there was an attack within Skyhold."

" _Shit,_ " he interrupted her inadvertently in his worry, hands clenched into fists. "Enemy spies? Is everyone alright? Were there any casualties?" Cai's blood was humming in his ears, goaded on by the careful absence of reaction in his Spymaster. Bull was frowning.

"Nothing fatal," Leliana confirmed, rather over simplifying. Trying not to bristle, even _more_ anxious for her to spit it out, Cai uttered a cautious ' _Thank the Maker,'_ under his breath. "Insofar as we can tell, there were no enemy infiltrators. We are still in the process of hunting them down, however, so I cannot say that for sure." The question on Trevelyan's face did not need to be asked, so she didn't make him. "It appears the responsible parties were simply...concerned Andrastians, worried for their Herald."

Cai closed his mouth, swallowing hard as he processed what she had said and what she hadn't. His people. _Their people_ had been the ones doing the attacking. All because they were worried, but concerned...for him? About what?

A conversation about undue influence surged to the forefront of Cai’s memory; the realization struck as subtly as a maul.

“I was gone _three days_ ,” the words were empty, pointless in the face of this failure. He knew how little the people of Skyhold trusted Dorian; even though several of his companions had grown close with the Altus, the fact that many others still delighted in slandering him was common knowledge.

Cai had known that and had _left him behind_.

“C’mon Boss,” Bull said quietly, and it was the most hesitant Cai had ever heard him sound. 

\--  
Dorian allowed himself a groan as light filtered in past his eyelids, dragging him from an uneasy sleep. Every part of him ached still but his head was clearer, less fragmented at the edges of his perception than it had been the previous several times he'd woken up. Levering himself up carefully, conscious of the uncomfortable tugging against the bandages, he glanced about the room to find himself alone in Cullen's loft, streaming sunlight filtering down through the gaping holes in the roof above.

Well, then. Best to get himself back to his own rooms and into some proper clothes; as it stood Dorian was still in Cullen’s simple shirt and pants. He set to dragging himself to his feet, finding with some horror there was nothing around to pass serviceably as boots. The climb down Cullen's ladder was arduous. No one was about to stop him exiting through one of the side doors, the emptiness of the room feeling ethereal all on its own. Every other time he’d drifted into consciousness he’d had Cullen, or Cole, or even Vivienne there to poke and prod and question...but never the person he’d _wanted_ to see. 

Walking about Skyhold in Cullen’s castoffs certainly wouldn’t help his image any but in a rare moment of humility, Dorian could not bring himself to care. His shoulders hunched down and rounded, feet searing with cold from the flagstones beneath, he made his way across the battlements. None of the guards made a comment to him; indeed, none of them seemed to do anything but glance at him and sneer. Dorian hurried past them all, chin tucked, eyes down. The route to his own section of the castle seemed to take far longer than it should have, but that may just have been the fatigue and cold in his toes talking.

By the time Dorian reached his door his knees were weak and despite the chill, his forehead was damp with sweat. He was so very tired. Every inch of him ached, pain seeping into deeper parts of him than just his bruised and battered flesh. Thinking back on the vicious righteousness of his attackers and the soft pity of his acquaintances...it would be nice, he decided, to have a moment of peace to fall apart, if only to properly wash and put himself back together afterwards. Surely he had earned that much? The momentary pause in the hallway was enough to set him to shivering, the corridor underfoot somehow a sharper cold than the battlements outside. Disgusted at the weakness of his still-mending body, Dorian shook the mental fugue away as best he could. He pushed his door open with a creak and didn't pause to wonder at the lack of an engaged lock.

Halward Pavus was standing across the room, arms folded as he stared at a small fire in the hearth. Dorian's breath caught, thumping wildly against his broken ribs as a hundred conflicting emotions ripped through him all at once. The force of it made him stagger forward and as he stumbled, a well-placed handhold on his bureau was the only thing that kept him from pitching forward all the way to the floor.

"Finally. You have returned." Halward gestured at the door and it quietly closed; Dorian, suddenly aware of the fragility of his position, straightened. The elder Pavus turned. He was quite the actor as always, costume grief written in bold lines across his visage. Dorian felt the force of his father’s regard as Halward frowned, taking in the state of his son's dress. "Clearly you’re a little the worse for wear." 

Dorian reached for a scathing rebuttal. Halward swallowed hard, then, and Dorian was struck instead. He had never seen so clear an affectation...did he truly look _that_ terrible? A tone that might have been concern echoed in Halward's voice as he asked, ever so quietly- 

"What happened to you, my son?" That tone...it _was_ worry, not disapproval, and _that_ was bizarre. Dorian drew back his shoulders as far as he was able, ignoring the throbs and stings the motion caused. He needed to begin again, to set the conversation back onto terrain he was familiar with. He cleared his throat.

"Nothing with which you need concern yourself." Dorian raised his chin, keeping his hands from fidgeting by folding them defensively across his chest. "What are you doing here?" The Halward Dorian knew would scold him for his tone, chide him for his lack of respect in answering a question with a question, not to mention doing so as brashly as Dorian had.

"Our discussion in Redcliffe did little to still my worry for you--"

" _About_ me," Dorian corrected. He watched Halward swallow a sigh even as his shoulders sagged a bit. "You remain unwilling to admit it, Father, but you know as well as I why I left Tevinter." He choked down the _home_ that had been hanging on his tongue instead, swallowing the bitter taste of it. "We needn't waste time on pleasantries. You are concerned _about_ me, about the stain my presence left on the family name."

Halward did not answer, still watching Dorian with...what, with sadness? Regret? Maker, he wasn't ready for another round of this, not now. Dorian allowed himself as heavy a sigh as he dared, rubbing his arms over the worn linen of Cullen's shirt.

"I wished to protect you from the political machinations that were at play," Halward began. Dorian's bitter laughter cut him off.

"Machinations that you yourself planned, no doubt. Try again."

"I only wished to make certain that you--"

"-had a worthwhile future as a vegetable propped up in one of the many cells you have stashed around the estate? Perish the thought." Anger was both a balm for Dorian's exhaustion and a burning drag on his still-recovering body. Halward shook his head sadly as though he knew.

"It would not have happened."

" _You can't know that_ ," Dorian hissed.

"I simply wished you to be free to achieve your potential, my son. You have so much of it." They were pretty words, ornate as a heirloom glass vase, beautiful and empty. “The face you show the public need not be who you are. I have tried to tell you this, despite your constant assertions. If you knew my mind so well, Dorian, you would know that all I did, I did _for you._ " Halward sighed heavily, looking much older than even the tavern’s poor lighting had made him seem. 

"Oh yes," Dorian’s hand gestures were small ones, sharp and angry. They matched the ache in his heart quite nicely. "Even now it seems you believe it better to lie than to be associated with this _deviancy,_ " he snarled as he cited words Halward had used years earlier. His father shook his head, face gaining a distinct sadness as he took three steps towards Dorian. Each click of his bootheels on the stone made Dorian feel colder, the proximity of the man he'd wanted to be (and this reminder of what Halward actually _was_ ) chilling him deep. Strange, that: ever before he’d felt his father’s anger as a swell of heat, his aura echoing against Dorian’s own power.

"It was never that simple. You care for Tevinter, and for our heritage. You think that I am concerned with my legacy and you’re right. You’re my _son_ , Dorian. My greatest creation, the greatest of our House." He took another step forward and Dorian, conflicted at the strangled longing in hearing his father's praise after near decades of the opposite, finally noticed the feeling of pressure building in the room. "I did not wish you to be torn from us, to die in an alley or worse. You were more than a liability: you were a danger to yourself. I couldn't allow it. But now," and then he gestured, one familiar ring on his hand glinting in the firelight ,"-now, you truly know what it means to be a man alone. I am thankful you made it through the lesson."

"You know nothing of what I've lived through," Dorian whispered. 

"Perhaps not. What matters is that I am here now." Halward reached for him and Dorian froze. Memories flooded him like the water from a dam fresh split. Weeks of psychological terror and physical torment, of being a prisoner in his own home, of his flight through the wilderness from all he’d ever known. The inundation would have staggered him, had Dorian had his mental footing to begin with. He turned grey eyes to his father, to Halward, and truly looked at him. He was not simply a parent; he’d been mentor, judge, hero, jailor, and a slew of other things as well. Dorian’s breath came quicker. To have this man, once so loved, now so loathed, here before him was simply a step too far. "You need not be alone like that again,” Halward continued, eerily echoing Dorian’s thoughts. “Come with me. Together, we can affect the changes you envision. We have the power, and the standing, to manage. You need not suffer these southern ingrates."

And Dorian _wanted._ To return home, to truly prove to his homeland that there was was more to them than petty infighting and all the horrid things the South wasn’t wrong about. To do that alongside his father? It sounded wonderful.

When Halward's hands closed gently on Dorian's shoulders it felt as though someone had dumped ice water in his veins, pervasive and frigid. His breath was forced down under the smothering cold. Shaking himself free, Dorian fell back against his door, coarse wood hard against his shoulder blades. 

_Get out._ The memory of Halward’s words rang in Dorian’s head like a curse, loud and echoing through his body straight to the marrow of his bones. The seething hatred clashed with the sweet allure in his father's words now. The condemnation put steel in his resolve even as it rounded his shoulders with tension.

"Do you see it now?" Halward took another step forward, closing in on where Dorian was now all but cowering. The anger had burned itself out and left him hollow. "You will never be anything but an outsider to these ungrateful people. Come home, my son. Come back to where you belong." His eyes drifted down and Dorian followed his gaze.

Visible beneath his shirt, bright blood bloomed against the linen wound around his chest. Halward’s next breath was sharp, his brow creased with worry. 

_You are no son of mine._ Another memory, another echo that stirred bile in Dorian’s gut even as he dared desperately to hope. He wanted so much to believe that his father had changed his mind. 

“What did they do to you, my son?” Halward spoke with quiet pain, now, none of the frothing anger Dorian could so vividly recall. Dorian lowered his gaze, resisting the urge to press a shaking hand to the flare of pain across his chest. 

“They marked me for what I am,” he answered quietly. To his shock he felt his father’s arms close around him, drawing him close. The embrace was firm but ever so gentle, Halward encircling Dorian’s back with an eye for avoiding his wound. 

“You needn’t suffer further,” Halward’s voice had softened, taking on a edge Dorian had never heard in it before. “I would see them hang for the affront but it will not fix your pain.” Dorian’s eyes clenched against a sudden burning, the forewarning of tears threatening to fall. Sickened by his own immaturity Dorian felt his body start to shake. “If only I had come to you sooner, convinced you to return home with me.” 

“Were it so simple,” Dorian mumbled miserably, taking in the familiar scent of his father’s cologne, sandalwood and spice. The small tremors in his frame grew to full-on shivering and the arms around him tightened. It was surreal, to feel Halward’s embrace this way, to hear him and smell him and know that, despite everything else, there was a chance something remained of the man Dorian had admired for most of his life... At that, the tears started to fall, streaks of warmth down the cold skin of his face.

“Dorian, you’re shaking. How long has it been since you slept? You must be exhausted.”

 _Sleep on the flagstones with the beggars and whores if you like! You are no son of mine!_ The memory of fiery anger burning through every nerve, feeling Halward’s aura nearly combusting as it clashed with his own. So different than now, with ice settling inside him, the cold kept barely at bay by the desperate hope in his heart.

Sleep…when had he last slept, truly? 

Dorian’s body went rigid as he realized. The pieces to a puzzle he hadn’t even been trying to solve snapped into place and they painted an ugly picture indeed. In acknowledgement, the hands clasped around him warped into claws. He winced as they dug into his bruised flesh through the thin material of his shirt. The cold intensified and the once-familiar voice in his ear twisted into a dark parody of itself, hissed from behind far too many teeth.

“Come now, we were having a moment.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout-out to Cyber-Fairie and Little_Abyss for cheerleading me through this mess and beta'ing it too, and to my job for sucking my creativity out like a Dyson vac to the temple.


End file.
